An Unusual Beginning
by blue.but.harmless
Summary: All of the very best things have unusual beginnings.  Join the next generation of Potters, Weasleys, and, yes, even Malfoys, as they experience their own.  Canon-compliant, multi chapter fic with characters, a plot, and awesomeness.  R&R, pretty please!
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer: _**_Schroedinger's cat is a thought experiment. Say you have a cat in a box, it goes. I don't know why you have this cat in this box, but there it is. The box is closed. In the box with the cat is a small amount of a radioactive element, hooked up to a system that will discharge poison gas into the box if a single atom of the element decays. Schroedinger really hated cats, apparently. If you leave the cat in this box for an hour, when you come back, there is no way to know for certain whether the cat is dead or alive until you open the box. Thus, hypothetically and speaking from a probabilistic point of view, the cat is both dead and alive in equal parts until you open the box. It's a zombie cat! _

_Characters are similar to Schroedinger's cat; before you name them on paper (or on a computer, as it may be), they have no owner. They will either be your own characters or someone else's, but for now they simply exist, belonging equally to each, in your head. Once you put them on paper, though, and provide them with a backstory and context, a background and a world, they have a definite owner. I am not the owner of these characters. They belong to Ms. J.K. Rowling, along with the world that they inhabit. All of the other words and sentences in the story are belong to me, though, and I would very much appreciate if it remained that way. Thanks, and enjoy!_

**Prologue: Scorpius**

Scorpius Malfoy was, to the surprise of pretty much everyone, a meek child.

"There has never _been_ a meek Malfoy!" Draco would exclaim in private.

"Yes, dear," Astoria would agree for the millionth time.

"Malfoys are intelligent, attractive, wealthy, arrogant, condescending, well-informed, conniving, loyal, untrustworthy, scheming sons-of-bitches. No offense meant, of course, my dear – "

"None taken," was the bored reply.

"But we are not _meek_!"

"Of course, dear."

But Scorpius was. He hid behind his mother's skirts when they had company. He refused to play with any of their friends' children, preferring instead to amuse himself. Quietly, of course – he was never rambunctious. He didn't even boast when he learned to read before Pansy's young daughter, Azalea. Merlin forgive them, but he _helped _teach her to read, guiding her patiently to a basic understanding of these strange shapes and their attached sounds.

"No, 'Lea, the zig-zaggy letter makes a 'w-' sound. The triangle letter makes the 'ah' sound. Try it again . . ."

"W-ah-nnn-dd"

"See, it spells wand!" It was precious, really. Draco shuddered. Pansy was predictably over the moon.

"Look, Drakie, they already have nicknames for each other! They're soooo meant to be!" She laid her hand fetchingly on Draco's arm. He shrugged it off.

"Yes, because having nicknames for each other worked out _so well_ for you two," Astoria snarked from the couch. She was ever the gracious hostess, but for Pansy she made an exception. Draco remained silent, still focused on his son.

"I think they should have a May wedding. May weddings are lovely," Pansy sighed.

"Save it, Pansy."

"For what?"

Draco and Astoria answered at the same time. Draco said, "For when they're old enough that having this conversation does not amount to condoning statutory rape!" Astoria's reply was, "For you to grow a brain." It was lucky Draco was the louder speaker, or Pansy may never have consented to bring her daughter over again.

Later, after Pansy had taken Azalea home ("Look, Mommy! 'Wand!' It says wand!" "No, honey, it says 'Malfoy.'" "No, wand!"), Draco had a long talk with Astoria. Well, Draco meant to have a long talk _at_ Astoria, but he had never succeeded at doing that in the past. His hopes were fortuitously dim this time as well.

"There has to be a way to fix this. He starts Hogwarts in only a few years –"

"Eight."

"What?"

"Eight years."

" . . . Right. He starts at Hogwarts in eight years, and I cannot have _my son_ going like . . . like that! He'll be shunned! He'll never be a Slytherin! I'll never live it down! Oh, Merlin, but what will my parents say? He'll be an embarrassment to the family name –"

"Let's be honest, now, dear. Your family name has already been about as embarrassed as it can be."

"That's not the point! He'll never have any friends, he'll wallow in angsty, quiet misery for his entire Hogwarts career, he'll start writing awful poetry, his professors –"

"Might actually like him?"

" . . . Well, er, that is to say . . . possibly." A long, meaningful silence ensued as Draco and Astoria both remembered Draco's rather disastrous days at Hogwarts. Draco could only dwell for so long in the past, though. He broke the silence first. "But it is absolutely unconscionable. I cannot allow my son to be meek. He has to develop a backbone. Pride. Condescension. Hell, he can even develop your sarcasm, and I'd call that a step forward!"

"Really?" Astoria's eyes gleamed. Draco had been on a roll, but he faltered a bit now.

"Yes, really. I suppose."

"How interesting." Astoria rose from her chair in the library, stretched her arms slowly above her head, arched her back, and made to leave. Draco was suddenly very nervous.

"Astoria, dearest, where are you going?"

"Away."

"Away where?"

"To go check on my son, of course." Her tone was full of concern for her little boy – perhaps he was sleeping fitfully? maybe he was having a nightmare? – but her eyes gleamed with inceptions of mischief. She made eye contact with Draco briefly, then turned and strolled out of the library and down the plush, carpeted hallway.

"Astoria?" he called after her fretfully. "Astoria, he's my son too! Astoria?" No answer was forthcoming. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Her "Yes, dear," floated back down the hallway placidly.

"I love that woman, but Merlin knows she will be the death of me," Draco grumbled as he turned down the lights in the library with a flick of his wand, and began the long process of preparing for bed.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

Eight years later, a slightly less meek Scorpius Malfoy stood waiting with his parents in front of a scarlet train. He had already changed into his black robes – he had disappeared off to the loo almost the second they had passed through the barrier. He was always a precocious child.

His robes were of the finest quality possible, not that anyone could really tell; they were simply black robes. His silver-blonde hair was meticulously trimmed, though he refused to wear it slicked back and sleek, as his father was wont to encourage. His grey eyes peered intelligently, hopefully, and, yes, slightly mischievously out from behind absurdly long lashes ("Can't we cut his eyelashes, Astoria? He looks like a girl." "Not on your life, dear."). Overall, he bore a striking resemblance to his father as a child, except for the fact that he remained quiet, choosing often to observe rather than participate. Also, his hairline was not receding, though no one made that observation to Draco's face.

The instant he spoke, though, his mother's influence and genetic contribution became clear. Under Astoria's careful and watchful eyes, he had grown into a polite, quiet, meek child. He minded his elders, he respected his peers, he fastidiously completed any task assigned to him. He loved to read. He became everything that Draco had feared he would for these long eight years. But at least now, occasionally, he snarked. He had a sarcastic streak at least half a kilometer wide. He was secretly hilarious, in an intelligent and understated way.

So there was a chance for him yet, Draco told himself optimistically as the three of them huddled in silence together, gazing at the train that would bear Scorpius off to a hopefully more illustrious Hogwarts career than his father had experienced.

The reminders of Draco's less-than-ideal time at Hogwarts were everywhere today. The crimson steam engine in front of him blared its horn, and he remembered the last time he had ridden it, back in his sixth year. He remembered boasting to Blaise and Pansy and the others about his 'special mission.' He remembered being full of confidence, naively certain of his success, paralyzingly terrified at the possibility of his failure.

Pansy waved gaily to him, standing with Azalea and her aging sugar-daddy – no, husband – only a few paces away. Draco remembered the superficial comfort of pretending they had a meaningful relationship. He remembered her exaggerated concern for him, her shrill cautions every time he left the dormitory after-hours (as if that was his biggest concern). He considered the slow decay of their insincere relationship into a true, if utterly flawed, friendship.

Draco caught Harry Potter's eye from across the platform. And his wife's, and the Weasleys'. He remembered the final Battle of Hogwarts, being saved unexpectedly and humiliatingly – twice! He remembered developing, over the course of six years, an increasingly complex combination of respect and revulsion for the Gryffindor trio. He remembered meeting a meek, polite boy in Madam Malkin's and making a horrible first impression. Now they exchanged curt nods across the distance.

Maybe having a meek child would not be the worst thing to ever happen.

"Scorpius," Draco began quietly. He knelt down to be closer to his son's height. These words were not for Astoria.

"Yes, Dad?" Scorpius turned to face his father, grey eyes grave and inquisitive. His gaze was open.

"See those families over there? No, don't be too obvious when you look. The redheads and the man with the infernally messy black hair. And the little boy who looks just like him. To your right, not your left. Your other right. There! You see them?"

"You mean the Potters and the Weasleys?"

" . . . Yes. How do you know who they are?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, Dad, but the Manor is not some rock that I've been living under for eleven years. _Everyone_ knows who they are."

"Right. Well, they're clearly sending some of their . . . brood . . . to Hogwarts this year. Just do me a favor and try not to –"

"Infuriate or provoke the children of the most influential wizarding families in Britain?"

"Yes, that."

"I'll do my best," Scorpius solemnly promised.

"But if you could also try to –"

"Outperform the Weasleys' child in every subject?"

"Yes. That would be ideal."

"Duly noted." Draco sighed and put his hand on his son's shoulder. Sometimes, just sometimes, Scorpius's repressed Malfoy-ness shone through beautifully.

The platform's clock struck eleven times. The air thrummed even after the noise stopped. Draco looked at Astoria, and found her gazing calmly back.

"It's time to go, Scorpius," she said gently. She knew he was nervous, even if his stance and his eager half-smile said differently.

"I'll be fine, Mom."

"I know. So will I." They exchanged their own glance, and Scorpius's smile grew wider.

"Well, looks like I'm off." He hugged each of his parents in turn, and all Draco could think about was how small his son seemed in this moment. How quiet. Even his steps were quiet, despite the large trunk he dragged behind him, as he turned away from his parents and walked toward the train. He turned around and waved one last time, his face serious again and composed, before disappearing into the train, becoming just one small, quiet figure with his face pressed to a window.

So it was that Scorpius Malfoy, the first meek Malfoy the world had ever seen, boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

_**My This-Is-Actually-Important Disclaimer:**_

_This chapter was very difficult to write, not least because I felt like it had to be perfect and live up to expectations and cure cancer and all that. But I was also concerned because the chapter I wanted to write had, in some ways, already been written for me. No doubt some of you will notice that much of the material from this chapter comes directly from J.K. Rowling's original Epilogue to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I decided that it was important for me to try to remain within the book canon boundaries. Thus, much of the dialogue at King's Cross was directly lifted from the book, and much of the background description is paraphrased as well (not quoted, paraphrased). I want to make sure that those of you who are about to read this know that I mean no copyright infringement; I give Ms. Rowling the mountains and mountains of credit she undoubtedly deserves, and I have bolded all text that I took direct and unaltered from the original Epilogue, just so there is no confusion. That said, I'd also like to give Ms. Rowling credit for the characters, names, places, world, etc. that you find in this story. The rest of the words, along with the plot, are mine, and I skipped a year of preschool, so I'm not very good at sharing. If you take them I'll probably have to come after you with a set of blocks or something. You have been disclaimed and warned._

**Chapter 1: Rose**_  
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"Your mother's brains." If she had a knut for every time she had heard those words, she would have . . . well, it would be a lot of money. Rose Weasley didn't begrudge the comparison, per say – it was more of an honor than anything. Hermione Granger was, after all, the "brightest witch of her age." And Hermione Weasley was a war hero with a happily-ever-after to boot: a wonderful husband, a loving family, an exciting and fulfilling job. What more could anyone ask for? No, it wasn't that Rose didn't want the brains; she loved being smart. What she didn't want was the label.

Her mother never really talked about her life before she became friends with Harry and Ron. Rose felt as though Hermione had started her life as an eleven-year-old when the trio had defeated a giant troll in the girls' loo with a single, almost accidental spell – a rather weak levitating charm, at that. But by the time Rose was a rather high-pitched seven-year-old, she began to wonder about her mother's own early childhood. So she asked one day.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Rosie?" Hermione answered absently.

"You were my age once, right?"

"Yes, Rosie," Hermione answered with a half-laugh.

"What were you like?" There was a long pause, and the laughter died from her mother's face.

"I was . . . different than I am now."

"How?"

"I didn't smile as much. I was much more serious, all the time."

"Were you sad?" Another long pause.

"A little," Hermione finally said lightly, but Rose knew that there was veracity, and not a little bit of hurt, behind that admission. Even though she wouldn't have been able to use at least two of the words in the previous sentence, she knew.

She decided at eight that it was the "genius" label that was the cause of her mother's woes, and she knew that she never wanted to feel that woe herself. She didn't want the label.

So it was easy, with so many male cousins, to learn to become boisterous and a bit rowdy. It was easy, with a father like Ron and an Uncle George who ran a joke shop, to laugh more, to giggle often and freely. It was easy, with a family the size of the Weasley-Potter-Lupin clan, to learn to speak louder, to tell a good story, to engage with everything around her and not have her nose eternally in a book. Being a proper child, a non-genius, was easy in a family where there were so many cousins and so many hyphens that the adults stopped bothering to learn names (all the children were called "dear," accompanied by a pointed finger when they were being asked to set the table; they were "Now, mister/miss," when they had just Spellotaped Hugo's mouth shut or "accidentally" levitated Lily to the top of the old grandfather clock – again). In Rose's family, and in her home, it was easy to be happy; it was easy to be normal.

And she had Albus, of course. He was her almost-constant companion. The fact that they were of an age made them an inseparable duo; sometimes, instead of "dear," "mister" or "miss," they were "RoseandAlbus." They had early on deemed it strategically necessary to forge an alliance against their siblings and their cousins. Individually, Albus would fall prey to James's endless pranking, and Rose had difficulty enduring Hugo's stubborn stick-in-the-mud attitude. And, of course, they had both suffered torment unbounded at the hands of the Delacour-Weasleys, two angelic, bilingual sirens and their mildly sadistic brother who enjoyed nothing more than ganging up on their smaller cousins for a forced magical makeover.

But with their alliance, Rose and Albus became the new _tour de force_ of the clan. Between Rose's laughing intelligence and her penchant for complex retribution plots; and Albus's quiet, sophisticated, and unerring instinct for causing chaos and his patently-false-but-often-effective puppy dog face, they were an unstoppable duo. They were also best friends; they told each other everything. And they shared everything, though at times that wasn't necessarily for the best.

"James is such a _prat._" It was an old refrain, coming from Albus, though somewhat more muffled than usual this time.

"Yep," Rose agreed glumly.

"And Louis. The two of them together, I swear, someday they'll –"

"Hopefully splice themselves learning to Apparate? Botch a Wronsky Feint? Mispronounce a spell and end up inside of a water buffalo?"

"Merlin, I hope so," Al said fervently. It sounded as though his nose was squashed.

"You and me both, Al. You and me both." There was a long pause.

"So . . . why was James mad at _you_?" Al began conversationally.

"He wasn't. He was mad at you, you dolt, for putting the Brussels sprouts in his secret ice-cream stash. I just happened to be in close proximity when he and Louis dumped the Sticking Solution off the roof."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Me too."

"Well, at least it's nice outside!"

"It would be a lot nicer if I wasn't stuck to the grass," Rose grumbled.

"Don't worry, someone will find us soon," Al maintained optimistically. Rose rolled her eyes, but Albus was stuck facedown, making it difficult for him to see her expression.

"I should really stop hanging out with you, Al."

"Why?"

"Occupational hazard."

"Don't worry, we'll get them back."

"You know I'm in."

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

Albus was right. Eventually, someone did find them. It was a good job they did, too, because it would have been very difficult to receive her Hogwarts letter if she was still stuck to the grass outside The Burrow. And so, Rose Weasley reached age eleven, the age at which young witches and wizards, especially those who are neither evil nor French, were sent to Hogwarts. She had grown into a precocious, rather gangly child with red curly hair, more freckles than even she could count, and a smile that seemed too large for her small face. She laughed almost as often as she talked, and smiled more. She could wrestle with any of her cousins (but only if biting and scratching were fair game, otherwise she was thoroughly outmatched), she played hide-and-go-seek with the best of them, and she had learned long ago how to disappear into some nook with the rest of her cousins whenever Uncle Percy stood up to give a speech at a family gathering. She was an almost permanently happy, carefree child.

But she still had her mother's brains. She was a sharp as a tack, quick as a whip, and all those other analogies which have been used so often as to be rendered almost meaningless.

And because Rose had her mother's brains, and because those brains were currently directing a large portion of their time and energy to her rapidly approaching departure for Hogwarts, something started bothering her, a niggling in the back of her head. She resolved to talk to Albus about it first chance she got, but not her parents. Still, her face must have shown that something was troubling her, because her father pulled her aside just before the four of them piled in his Muggle car to go to King's Cross.

"Rosie, are you all right?" Ron's brow was furrowed, his hand heavy with concern on her shoulder.

"Of course, Daddy. I'm fine."

"Nothing's . . . bothering you, I mean? Your mother noticed – that is, your mother and I think you've been a little . . . quieter lately." He was straightening her black robes as he spoke, not really meeting her eyes.

"Really, I'm fine. I'm just nervous about school."

"Oh, Rosie. You are your mother's daughter." His voice was relieved, and a smile much like Rose's returned to his face. "If I know you at all, you'll be leaving the rest of them in the dust by your second day. You'd never have to Confund anyone to pass a test – not that I've ever done that either, of course." He coughed, and his ears turned red. Rose just looked at her father and laughed. "Just don't tell your mother, right, Rosie?"

"It's our secret, Dad." They smiled identical smiles at each other.

"Come here, Rosie," he held out his arms, and she allowed him to enfold her in a familiar, safe embrace. She sighed deeply. "You know I'm going to miss you, right?"

"I know, Dad." A car horn honked from the driveway.

"That'll be your mother. Always wanting to be on time. But she's usually right, you know. I told you about that one time your Uncle Harry and I missed the Hogwarts Express, right?"

"Yep," Rose laughed. "I'm pretty sure you spent half your time at Hogwarts in the middle one disaster or another."

"Like you wouldn't believe, Rosie." She gave him an odd look, but her father's attention had already moved on to the task ahead. He looked rather green as they walked out to the car together; it would be his first major outing after getting his Muggle license.

Overall, though, the journey to King's Cross was uneventful. Rose did notice her father covertly casting a Supersensory Charm when her mother was busy scolding Hugo for trying to take apart the car door ("The middle of an expressway is not the time to try to figure out how a door works, Hugo!" "But _Mom_." "We have plenty of doors at home that you can dismantle. I promise to let you have a go at Rosie's when we get back." "MOM!" "Joking, Rosie. Only joking."). Despite this, the little family of four got onto the platform without any fuss, and stood blinking for a moment in the heavy mist of Platform 9 ¾.

"Let's go look for Al," said Rose, and set off down the platform. By the time they had all reached the last carriage, though, they had yet to see any of the Potters. They had seen plenty of Weasleys there along the way, and one Lupin, which was slightly odd, as Teddy had graduated from Hogwarts two years previously. Rose was just starting to get worried, as was Hermione ("Ron, why is it that _your _best friend and _your _sister are always late?"), when they heard the unmistakable sound of Albus's voice through the vapor.

**"Where are they?"** he said anxiously.

**"We'll find them,"** answered Aunt Ginny's disembodied voice. And then, **"I think that's them, Al."** The Potters emerged suddenly from the mist, trailing one trolley, one cage, and only two children. James had evidently wandered off on his own. Albus immediately found Rose's eyes.

**"Hi,"** he said. The relief was clear in his tone. She smiled in return. Once their parents were loading Albus's belongings onto the train, safely distracted in catching up (though it had only been two days since they last saw each other), Rose drew Albus away from Hugo and Lily.

"We have to talk. It's important."

"What about?" Albus looked about fretfully, as though 'something important' were a ravenous monster that might emerge from the heavy steam at any moment.

"Not now, silly. On the train. Make sure to sit with me."

"Of course, Rosie."

Their parents started back towards the platform, interrupting Lily and Hugo's conversation about which Hogwarts house they would be sorted into when they finally started, two years down the road.

"**If you're not in Gryffindor,"** Ron began seriously, **"we'll disinherit you. But no pressure."** Everyone laughed except Rose and Albus.

"**Ron!"** Hermione admonished. **"He doesn't mean it,"** she and Ginny told Rose and Albus, respectively. But Ron had been distracted already. Her father was easily distractible, Rose noted for the umpteenth time.

**"Look who it is,"** he muttered, an unusually intense look on his friendly face. The tips of his ears were turning red, a sure warning sign of either anger, embarrassment, or an impending sneeze. He jerked his head slightly toward a family of three that bore remarkable visual similarity to a family of vampires in both skin tone and attire. They were huddled together a little closer to the front of the train. **"So that's little Scorpius. Make sure you beat him on every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother's brains."** _That's another knut_, thought Rose grimly.

**"Ron, for heaven's sake,"** her mother broke in, **"don't try to turn them against each other before they've even started school!"**

**"You're right, sorry,"** Ron muttered, looking chastened. But his ears were still red, and he added, **"Don't get too friendly with him, though, Rosie. Granddad Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pureblood." **There was an awkward silence. Rose wasn't really sure how to respond to that.

"**Hey!"** With his usual impeccable timing, James had returned. He was very loud and evidently excited, both fairly normal states for the oldest Potter child. **"Teddy's back there,"** he continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. **"Just seen him! And guess what he's doing? Snogging Victoire!"** He made this pronouncement with a kind of dramatic flourish, clearly expecting everyone else to be just as overwrought as he was.

No one was.

"_**Our **_**Teddy! **_**Teddy Lupin**_**! Snogging **_**our**_** Victoire! **_**Our **_**cousin! And I asked Teddy what he was doing –"**

**"You interrupted them?"** Ginny said, laughing. **"You are **_**so**_** like Ron."**

**" – and he said he'd come to see her off!"** James continued, unabashed. **"And then he told me to go away. He's **_**snogging**_** her!"**

**"Oh,"** Lily broke in with her childish, still-lisping voice, **"it would be lovely if they got married! Teddy would really be part of the family then!"**

**"He already comes round for dinner about four times a week. Why don't we just invite him to live with us and have done with it?"** Harry said, smiling slightly.

**"Yeah!"** James said – or rather, shouted, which more accurately describes his typical volume. "**I don't mind sharing with Al. Teddy could have my room!"** Rose looked up in alarm. So did Albus. They made eye contact for a brief second before Albus turned his gaze toward his father, puppy-dog-face firmly in place.

**"No," **Harry decreed. **"You and Al will share a room only when I want the house demolished." **He checked his watch. He smiled a bit, and said**, "It's nearly eleven, you'd better get on board."**

Rose turned back towards her parents, grinning broadly to let them know she was ok. She hugged her mother first.

"Rosie, you're going to do just wonderfully," Hermione said, voice a little bit wobbly. She pulled back and wiped her eyes a little. "We'll write to you as often as you like. We'll send you cookies every day, too." Rose looked at her mother skeptically. "Don't worry, we'll have Grandma Weasley bake them." They both smiled.

"I'll miss you, Mom."

"Oh, I'll miss you too, my dear. Now go before I start crying in earnest. Go!" Rose turned towards her father. She gave him another hug, but he was silent; they had said all that needed to be said earlier. She waved a brief goodbye to Hugo, who stared at her solemnly with big, brown reproachful eyes, then turned away. Her robes swished around her as she walked towards the crimson train; she liked the unfamiliar feeling.

On the train, she began looking for a place to sit – an empty compartment, preferably, where she and Albus could talk. For a fleeting moment, she resented her family for taking too long in their goodbyes; there were no empty compartments to be found. But, towards the back of the Hogwarts Express, she came upon a compartment with a single occupant, hazy through the glass. She slid the door open, and exclaimed in surprise. The (very familiar) single occupant looked up.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" Rose said, trying to cover her initial reaction, "I just didn't expect anyone to be in here." She blushed a bit with the lie, which was a very Weasley thing to do. The boy didn't seem to notice.

"It's fine," he said with a small smile.

"Do you . . . do you mind if I sit here? Most of the other compartments are full."

"Not at all." He gestured for her to sit wherever she pleased, and returned to looking out the window. She took a seat on the bench across from him.

"I'm Rose, by the way. Rose Weasley." She reached out her hand across the aisle. He grasped it, and they shook hands briefly.

"Scorpius Malfoy. It's very nice to meet you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2: Relatives and Revelations**

_**Disclaimer:**__ In the most famous song by an awesome a capella group cleverly called "Rockapella," a daring thief sneaks around the world from Kiev to Carolina. This sticky-fingered filcher stole everything from the Pyramids at Giza to the Eiffel Tower in her day, and managed to elude countless law enforcement representatives from hundreds of countries, despite her penchant for wearing a bright red trenchcoat and a matching hat. She was fairly impressive. I fear that I date myself when I admit that, as a child, I kind of wanted to be her; only Where's Waldo could possibly hope to equal Carmen Sandiego's level of cool, and I always hated wearing stripes. As I grew up, though, I reevaluated my dreams a bit. I became a rule-follower, and soon after, a goody two-shoes. My pendulum has since swung back a little more towards the center of the spectrum, but, unlike Miss Sandiego, I will never put the Miss in Misdemeanor. And so, I am legally obligated to inform you that (most) of the characters and all of the background/setting in the following story do not belong to me. These belong to the fabulous Ms. Rowling, without whose creative oeuvre my own story could not exist. I would like to thank her for overlooking the fact that I am blatantly using her characters for my own uses. I would also like to note that all of the story elements, and most of the words in between the names, do in fact belong to me. Please be so kind as to keep it that way. Many thanks!_

Rose couldn't help but stare – it was the boy her father had pointed out to her! Her mind whirled with questions that, being a Weasley, it was very difficult to suppress. Her father had told her many times that curiosity and having a big mouth went hand-in-hand in his family – and got them in no end of trouble. She resisted the impulse.

"Nice to meet you as well, Scorpius. Has anyone ever told you your name is a bit of a mouthful?"

"Not really, no."

"Well, it is. Do you have any nicknames?"

"Not really."

"Oh." The conversation trailed off a bit awkwardly, though Rose got the impression that Scorpius was more amused than anything. Despite her better instincts, Rose really wanted to just go in for the kill. _So tell me, person I just met about ten seconds ago, why is my father so concerned that I beat you on every test?_ But since that wasn't really socially acceptable, she tried to contain herself. She couldn't think of anything else to say, though. After a rather elongated moment of silence, she suddenly remembered Albus. "Oh! I told my cousin to come find me on the train. You don't mind if I –" she made a motion towards the door.

"Not at all." Rose slid open the door and peered both ways down the train's corridor, but Albus was nowhere to be seen. He was probably still looking for her. He still had a few moments left, but the first blasts of the train's horn were sounding; their departure was imminent. Where could that boy be? She was about to use her genetic predilection towards loudness to yell his name when he came barreling down the hall, almost crashing directly into her.

"Sorry, Rosie," he said breathlessly. "You know how my parents are."

"You almost missed the train, Al!"

"Yeah, and we all know how that would have worked out. Too bad Granddad's flying car went feral a quarter of a century ago," he said, winking at her as he slid into the compartment. She laughed and followed him in.

"Oh!" Al's reaction to Scorpius's presence in the compartment was almost identical to hers.

"I seem to have that effect on people," observed Scorpius. "I'm Scorpius Malfoy."

"Albus Potter. But if you don't call me Al, I'll probably hex you." Scorpius raised an eyebrow. "Once I learn how, of course."

The train's horn sounded again, the feeling of imminent motion suddenly condensing around them. Rose and Albus rushed to the compartment window and opened it, thrusting their heads out. They were by no means the only ones. Up and down the length of the Hogwarts Express, students were hanging out of the windows, waving farewell to their families, rolling their eyes at the last-minute reminders to "Wash your robes every once in a while, Phineas!" or promising letters home to their parents as soon as they arrived. Rose heard Fred and Roxanne's unmistakable shouts, vowing rather cryptically to send more toilet seats this year, "From the prefects' bathroom – guaranteed!" But she also noticed an unusual number of eyes, both on and off the train, focused in her direction – or rather, her parents'. Al noticed too.

**"What are they all staring at?"** he asked. Uncle Harry looked uncomfortable; the hand he was waving faltered for a moment, reaching to fix his fringe.

**"Don't let it worry you,"** Rose's father laughed. **"It's me. I'm extremely famous."** The gathered Potters and Weasleys laughed with him.

The Hogwarts Express began to pull away, and Uncle Harry followed it for a few steps, his eyes growing farther away but still focused on Albus's face. Rose and her cousin kept their heads poked out of the window until the Express rounded a corner. They pulled themselves back in, laughing with excitement, their hair windswept. Not that it made much of a difference; both of their families were notorious for having unmanageable hair.

"I think it's a lost cause, Al," Rose laughed as Al tried to smooth down his hair in the back.

"Just like your father Harry's," Scorpius quipped. Al and Rose shot him a strange look. There was a slight silence.

"How d'you know what my father's name is?" Al asked curiously.

"You must be joking." But Rose and Albus's persistent silence and confusion bordering on suspicion lingered, and now it was Scorpius who stared at them oddly. "Well . . . I guess . . . Potter is a fairly old wizarding family, like mine. I guess I just kind of . . . have heard the name before? That was your father, waving to you on the platform, right? I mean, you look just like him." Rose elbowed Al.

"I keep telling him that, but he doesn't believe me," she smiled at Scorpius, and the tension was broken.

"You try hearing that you look like someone _Geminio_'d your father in miniature every day, and see how you take it," Albus grumbled.

"I've tried. It gets tiresome after a while," Scorpius agreed.

"So – the Malfoys are an old wizarding family?" Rose asked inquisitively.

"Ye-e-es, " Scorpius said, drawing the word out a bit strangely. "Rather."

"That's cool. The name does sound familiar, for some reason. Did your parents go to Hogwarts too?"

"Yes, they did." Scorpius's eyes were growing wider and wider as the conversation continued; Rose could not imagine why. Perhaps he was about to sneeze? Or maybe he was dim-sighted, and needed to let a lot of light into his eyes to see properly? She forged on regardless; she had a goal in mind.

"Neat! What year did they graduate? I think our parents must have known each other while they were there; my Dad said something on the platform –"

"Oh look!" Scorpius cried, a bit too loudly. "It's a . . . shadow! On the wall!" Rose and Albus looked instinctively. Their heads swiveled simultaneously back to Scorpius.

" . . . Yes. Yes it is," Al agreed skeptically.

"Imagine that," Rose added.

"Sorry about that," Scorpius continued, looking not sorry in the least. "I get a little . . . excited about, erm, shadows. I . . . um, collect them, you know."

"You collect shadows?"

"Yes, well, not literally of course. Um. Mentally. In my mind. Yes."

" . . . Right."

The compartment grew quiet. It got awkward. Al and Rose kept exchanging looks in what they evidently thought was a subtle manner, and Scorpius kept having to cover his smiles by coughing. In his defense, though, they were rather unintentionally and obviously hilarious: they were apparently attempting to have an entirely non-vocal conversation through the usage of various eyebrow movements. Mostly it just made them look like there were caterpillars doing spirited jigs right above their eyes. Rose was trying to convey to Albus that she was terribly sorry, she had no idea that their companion was insane when she had found this compartment, and there really wasn't anyplace else to sit anyway, so they might as well get comfortable for a while, they could ditch him after the train, as he was sure to be Hufflepuff material anyway – no offense meant to cousins Lucy or Dominique. Albus was trying to ask where the food trolley lady was.

Before she managed to make an appearance, though, it seemed that every one of their relatives found some reason to stop by their compartment. Victoire was in a bit of a tiff when she stopped by with Dominique in tow. Uncle Bill's oldest child kept flipping her hair over her shoulder in a very agitated way and asking what, exactly, that "eensufferable James boy" had told them. Dominique was unusually quiet, and Rose guessed that she had borne the brunt of her sister's agitation already. Almost no one could function after being the victim of a full-on French Breakdown from Victoire. When the sisters left, Scorpius's eyes followed them longer than was strictly appropriate. They may be only part-veela, thought Rose, but it must have been the important part. Fred and James stopped by next, hinting that Rose and Albus might want to steer clear of the Slytherin Prefects' compartment for the rest of the journey, and casting Scorpius a few dubious looks on their way out. Louis and Roxanne merely walked by their compartment, did a double take, and then took to pressing their faces up against the glass in all sorts of contorted expressions, before they were headed off by Molly, who was a Ravenclaw prefect. When Molly and Lucy, normally the quietest Weasley cousins, actually stepped in for a chat, Rose nearly lost it.

"We know our parents put you up to checking on us, ok? And you can see we're just fine. So why don't you go do your prefect's duties somewhere else." Molly smiled a small smile.

"We can never put one over on you, Rosie."

"We just know what it's like, your first train to Hogwarts. We're trying to help!" Lucy chimed in, looking eager to please as always.

"It's very kind of you all, really," Rose began, "but can't you see you're making Al more nervous?" Everyone's eyes, including Scorpius's, turned toward Al, who was, in fact, a bit pale and shaky.

"I'm ok," he said with a very breakable smile.

"See, we're fine," Rose said firmly. "We'll see you at the feast."

"Ok, ok, little cousins," Molly said, her smile making up for the condescension in her tone. "We know when we're not wanted." She and Lucy left the compartment quietly.

"What are you nervous about?" asked Scorpius as soon as the door closed. Albus sighed, clearly debating whether to answer or not.

"Sorting," he said shortly at last. He had clearly decided that Scorpius was harmless enough, and probably too crazy to care anyway.

"Me too," said the small blond boy. Rose said nothing. The compartment grew silent again.

It was a terrible relief to all three when they heard the creaking wheels of a cart outside of their door, and a warm old voice that sounded like it ate chocolate chip pancakes three meals a day asked, "Anything off the trolley, dears?" All three leapt up and began ordering far more food than they could ever consume, individually or together. They went to work on their food, again in silence. They munched Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and the occasional and carefully selected Bertie Botts Every Flavored Bean, all in total and complete silence. A few minutes later, Scorpius, apparently immune to the effects of sugar but not those of a full belly, fell asleep, his small head tilted against the window, mouth slightly agape. Rose and Albus deemed it safe to begin a quiet conversation.

"Who is he, d'you think?"

"I think he's Scorpius Malfoy, and that I have to beat him on every test."

"Yeah, I got that, thanks. But, I mean, why _him_? Why'd your dad pick _him_? He just seems like a weird little nutter. Harmless, but definitely weird."

"I don't know," Rose mused. "The name 'Malfoy' definitely sounds familiar. I just can't place it right now. It'll come to me."

"Maybe it's French for 'insane,'" Albus suggested. "We could ask Victoire, if she isn't too busy snogging Teddy. Or Dominique, as long as she hasn't got makeup within ten feet of her. But not Louis. Definitely not Louis." Albus shuddered, partially in anger, partially in fear.

"Yeah, I guess we could . . ." Rose trailed off, brown eyes still distant.

"Hey!" said Al, snapping his fingers in front of her face. "Before you go off to whatever crazy memory warehouse you're trying to find, d'you want to tell me what you were so keen on keeping secret back on the platform?" Rose shook herself a bit, returning to the present day. She craned her neck to check that Scorpius was still sleeping. She assumed the drool indicated that he was. Letting her head drop back into a more natural position, she slouched her shoulders a bit, looking suddenly dejected. She started running through piano exercises on her leg.

"I'm worried, Al."

"About the Sorting? Aren't we all?" Albus asked, laughing shakily.

"No, not about the Sorting," Rose hedged.

"What _are_ you worried about, then?" Al asked, a little incredulous and a little cautious; if _Rose_ was worried, he should probably be terrified. Plus, she was doing that piano thing with her hands again, and that was a sure sign that, whatever he was about to hear, he did not want to hear it. Rose was quiet for a rare moment, then met his eyes briefly before looking down at her hands and talking to them.

"I'm just worried Hogwarts won't be all it's cracked up to be."

"Not all it's cracked up to be? What do you mean? I mean, we've got to get through the Sorting first, but then - ! You've heard the stories – our parents' stories! It'll be amazing!" He said this as though it would solve her problem. Her eyes stayed on her hands; if possible her shoulders slouched lower. "Do you think they were lying?"

"No, of course not! I just don't know if they were telling the whole truth."

"What do you mean?"

"I . . . There were some weird things in our parents' stories. Haven't you ever noticed?" Albus shook his head silently. "Remember how your dad told us about that time he snuck into Hogsmeade through a secret passage, even though there were dementors patrolling all of the school entrances?"

"How could I forget? He swore us to the absolute secretest of secrecies. And then when he was finished, he looked up, and your mom had been right outside the room the whole time. I honestly thought she was going to go to Azkaban for murder that night." Al smiled briefly at the memory before Rose's intense gaze wiped the grin right off his face.

"Have you ever heard James mention dementors guarding the grounds?"

" . . .No? I guess not."

"Or any of our other seven older cousins?"

"No."

"Don't you think that would have been something they might have mentioned at some point over the last, you know, six years or so? Dementors aren't really easy to forget, right?"

"You're always right, Rose."

"So why were there dementors guarding the school grounds then – but not now? Or why was there a Ministry employee working as the Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher?

"When was that?"

"Your dad's fifth year. That terrible woman who looked like a frog – I can't remember her name. Erm . . . umm . . . Umbridge! That was it."

"Oh, yeah."

"Something's just weird about it. I looked up some old _Prophet_ articles, or I tried to find them in the library at my house, but –" There came a snuffling noise from Scorpius's corner of the compartment. Rose shifted uncomfortably. "I think something big was going on when they were there, something – "

"Like a mad, power-hungry zombie with no nose targeting the school?" came Scorpius's voice from the corner. Both cousins looked around in surprise. All previous signs of drool had been eradicated, and Scorpius's grey eyes were conspicuously not closed, a sure sign that he was not, in fact, asleep.

"That wasn't exactly my hypothesis, no . . ." said Rose, while Albus simultaneously demanded, "How long have you been awake?"

"The whole time," Scorpius responded blithely.

"Oi, mate, that's called . . . that's called . . . Rose, what's that called?"

"Eavesdropping, Al."

"That's called eavesdropping, and I don't give two Knuts if you're as bonkers as a banshee –"

"What was that about a zombie?" Rose interrupted.

"You must be joking," Scorpius was smiling, looking back and forth between the two cousins.

"Rose never jokes about zombies," Al said seriously, "She's dead scared of them." Scorpius rolled his eyes and turned to Rose.

"I'm not joking," she said quietly. Scorpius's smile melted off his face like it was made of wax and someone had aimed a _Confringo _curse in his vicinity.

"Listen, do you two seriously not know?" His tone was grave.

"Know about what?" Rose was getting frustrated; she hated feeling like other people knew more than she did.

"About Voldemort!" There was dead silence in the compartment; it seemed as though the train itself was shuddering with some kind of embedded, horrific memory.

"What a ridiculous name," Albus declared. "Is that French too?"

"Oh, Merlin," Scorpius said, very quietly.

"No, no, no, don't mind Albus there. He's got two settings: silent-and-sullen, and won't-shut-up. He's a bit stuck in the second one right now, and he's got no mind for academia at all. _I _know who Voldemort was. He was that awful Dark Wizard, right? One of the worst there ever was. Back in the day, right around –"

"Right around when your parents were at Hogwarts," Scorpius finished quietly. "Yes."

"Right. But what's the one got to do with the other? There's school, and then there's war. I mean, our parents were just kids, it's not as though they had to go to war or anything. They weren't exactly of an age to be drafted. Right?" She looked at Scorpius expectantly.

"Oh, Merlin - Hogwarts isn't exactly your everyday school," Scorpius began weakly.

"Well," Rose barreled on, ignoring Scorpius's last comment, "I guess the war could explain some of the odd things about the stories – like the extra security measures, or the Ministry involvement at Howarts. But . . ." she trailed off. "But it still –" Rose trailed off, confused. There was a heavy silence in the compartment.

"Tell me everything you know about Voldemort," Scorpius said at last, very quietly.

"His name was ridiculous and French," Albus answered immediately.

"I wasn't talking to you," Scorpius said, staring at Rose.

"He . . . well, he was a Dark Wizard," Rose began uncertainly. "And he really, really hated Muggles. And Muggle-borns. He – he gained power through a combination of fear tactics and terrorism," her voice was gaining strength now. "He ended up successfully staging a silent _coup_ at the Ministry of Magic, and running somewhat of a Reign of Terror for a while, before he was brought down at the Battle of Hogwarts by the Order of the Phoenix. After all the underage students had been vacated, of course. Teddy's parents and our Uncle Fred died in the Battle. I think Grandma and Granddad Weasley were there too . . ." she screwed up her eyes in concentration, trying to remember. "I think most of the older Weasleys were there, actually, now that I think about it. It's a wonder they don't talk about it more. But I suppose a great battle isn't exactly something you reminisce over . . ." She looked at Scorpius expectantly.

"Oh, Merlin."

"You keep saying that! I do not think it means what you think it means. What is so _wrong_?" Albus almost snapped.

"Oh, Merlin. I don't . . . I don't even know how to begin." He looked at Rose and Albus. "If you weren't already sitting down, I'd tell you to take a seat." He took a deep, steadying breath, looked at them both again, shook his head, and muttered, "I'm the last person who should be telling you this."

"Telling us _what?_ You haven't told us squat yet!" Albus was getting frustrated in earnest, and a frustrated Albus was a whiny Albus. Scorpius shook his head again as though to clear it, leaned forward so that his elbows were on his knees, and asked Rose a very simple question.

"Who killed Voldemort?" Al looked at her expectantly, but Rose was silent and perplexed.

"You know," she said thoughtfully after a moment, "I've no idea. It's funny; you'd think that'd be a rather important detail."

"It is," said Scorpius.

"So who was the wonderwizard?" asked Albus expectantly.

"Your father."

"No, really."

"It was your father."

"You're joking."

"Not in the slightest." He took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture far too old for him, and continued, "Your father was known as the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, and it was prophesied before his birth that he would be able to kill Voldemort when no one else could. It wasn't easy, as you might imagine. As his best friends," Scorpius continued, looking at Rose, "Your parents were with him every step of the way. The Battle of Hogwarts happened when they were seventeen." Albus looked almost terminally skeptical, but Rose was lost in thought, memories whirring through her head like the rifling of papers. Scorpius was watching her carefully.

"I don't believe you," Albus stated flatly. Scorpius threw up his hands.

"I'm telling the truth! He's the Head of the Auror Department now, is it really that hard to believe?"

"No," Rose breathed, "it's not. The stories . . . they never had ends, but they all seemed connected."

"You're talking Gibberish again, Rose, but I swear I didn't accidentally hex you this time."

"No, Al, think about it. Something happened to our parents pretty much every year they were at Hogwarts, right? I mean, call it a bad luck if you will, but the insane stuff that happened to them? Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action – what does that make six times?"

"Er . . . the Mafia?"

"No, Al. Persecution. Or Fate. Or a little bit of both. And they never really talk about their seventh year at Hogwarts . . ."

"It's because they didn't have one," Scorpius interjected quietly. Rose snapped her eyes out of the air somewhere over everyone's head and trained them on the small blond boy.

"Tell us everything."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3: The Sorting Hat Speaks**

_**Disclaimer:**__ I have very eclectic taste in music. I know that a lot of people say this, but may I be so bold as to claim that it's actually true in my case? That's a rhetorical question; I am being so bold. Deal with it. The content of my iTunes Library ranges from the Mamma Mia! soundtrack to AC/DC, from Slim and Slam (circa 1938) to My Chemical Romance, from Billy Joel to Mozart. And one day, I was sitting there, listening to Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor, 2__nd__ movement, when I thought to myself, "Gee, this sounds really familiar." For about five minutes, I wracked my brains, before realizing that I should probably be wracking my iTunes Library instead. Well, my library is big, but it's not infinite, and eventually I found what I was looking for: Andrew Lloyd Webber's "I Don't Know How to Love Him," from Jesus Christ Superstar. It's just coincidence, I told myself. Still, the melodies are awfully similar. And then, about three weeks later, a Pink Floyd song I don't often listen to came up on Shuffle. "Hmmmm," I thought to myself. "This sounds like . . ." this time, I knew exactly what I was looking for: Andrew Lloyd Webber again, this time the theme from "Phantom of the Opera." Now, I would never accuse Andrew Lloyd Webber of plagiarism; Wikipedia's already done that for me (I looked it up). But the question of plagiarism can cast a long shadow of doubt over even the most respected artists. Let me remove that shadow from myself: Harry Potter and Co. are__** not**__ mine. I admit that right out. They belong to Ms. J.K. Rowling, who has kindly permitted lowly wannabes like myself to play around in the wonderful world she created. So I'd like to thank you, Ms. Rowling, for letting me use your characters, your places, your ideas, and your inspiration. For allowing me to plagiarize a little bit, if you will. And I'd like to thank the rest of you for letting me keep what does belong to me: this story. Happy reading!_

"Cheer up, Rosie, it's not like they lied to us about _everything_. Actually, most of the stories they told us were true –"

"Yeah," Rose fumed. "They just left all the important bits out." They had left the Hogwarts Express and were taking advantage of the noisy crush of students on their way to the carriages, or in their case, the boats, to have their own conversation. James suddenly dashed by them, flicking Albus's ear as he went.

"See you at the Sorting, ickle firsties! Watch out you don't get eaten by the Giant Squid on the way there!" Albus was otherwise distracted; when he didn't rise to the bait, James just chuckled maniacally and went to catch up with some of his friends. Albus turned back to Rose.

"Yes, that's a fair point," Albus agreed equably, "but still, you have to admit it's pretty cool – "

"You're just excited that your Dad was the wunderkind who saved the Wizarding World."

"Hey! Your parents helped!"

"Yeah," said Rose, wonder lighting her face a little bit, "I suppose they did . . ." she trailed off, smiling slightly, and then her eyebrows smashed back down over her eyes. "_No_, I am _angry_, and I am going to _stay _angry until I get an explanation!"

"Firs' years this way! Firs' years over here!" Rose and Albus knew what to expect when they heard the familiar voice. Unlike many of the first-year students, their jaws didn't hit the floor, literally or figuratively, when Hagrid's huge figure came into view.

"All righ' there, Al, Rosie?" he asked with a giant grin.

"Fan-bloody-tastic," Rose grumbled as she stumped into an empty boat, sat down, and folded her arms. Hagrid looked at Albus questioningly as he clambered to get a seat in the same boat.

"We just found out my Dad's the savior of the Wizarding World," he said, by way of explanation, unable to wipe the grin off of his face. "This is Rose's way of being excited." Hagrid shot a dubious look at Rose's glowering face, made more menacing by the dark sky and lengthening shadows.

"I see," he said, furrowing his eyebrows. He paused. "Women."

"Too right you are, Hagrid," Al said wisely, leaning back against the hull of the small boat.

"Is this seat taken?" Scorpius asked, not waiting for an answer before he climbed in, almost catlike, and sat down.

"Great," Rose groused as he sat down, "Just what we need. A _Malfoy_ in our boat."

"You didn't even know you were supposed to hate me until I told you so," Scorpius said mildly. "Before that, you just thought I was a 'weird little nutter.' Why don't we go back to that?"

Rose mumbled something under her breath. The words "Death Eater," "father," and "ferret," were clearly distinguishable. Scorpius looked perplexed about the presence of the third, but he was also surprisingly glib about the first two.

"Yes, yes, and he's terribly sorry and all that. But, to be honest, he was rather . . . completely inept as a Death Eater, you might say." Despite herself, Rose was about to ask what he meant when another boy plopped himself into their boat.

"I'm sitting here," he declared, looking about him as though challenging the other three figures in the boat to deny him. His rather close-set eyes looked almost comical above his wide mouth, which was set into a stubborn line. He had short brown hair that was spiked on end, except for where it had been flattened by a nap on the Hogwarts Express.

"Sure," said Albus easily. "The quicker our boats are full, the quicker we get to leave, see?" Even as he spoke, their small boat slid itself off of the rocky shore and began to slide across the water, silently following its brethren. The night that was deepening around them was clear and calm, the face of the lake like a mirror. The only sound to be heard was the murmur of conversation among the first-years as they glided in their little boats across the lake. It was a low and constant sound, ebbing and flowing almost, harmonious and dim. Their boat was silent, and to Rose it seemed that they were simply floating on the hidden melody of the combined voices swelling around them. She relaxed a little, loosened her glare. And then the newcomer's voice rang out stridently again.

"Why are you all so quiet? Don't you want to know my name?"

" . . . Sure?" Al replied quizzically.

"I'm Ezekiel. Ezekiel Smith. My Dad was here during the Battle of Hogwarts. He's been teaching me the same defensive spells he learned from Harry Potter. He says I'll probably be able to beat almost anyone here in a duel by my second week." All this was, apparently, his way of introducing himself. Ezekiel puffed out his chest a bit. He waited, expectantly at first, and then slightly confused, as the three others in the boat gave in to giggling. It was just so . . . ironically perfect. Scorpius was, perhaps unsurprisingly, the first to compose himself.

"Scorpius Malfoy," he said, "It's an honor to meet you." Ezekiel seemed a little unsure about whether or not he was being mocked, but he nodded at Scorpius regally anyway. His gaze transferred to Rose.

"I'm Rose Weasley," she said quietly.

"And I'm Albus Potter," said Al amiably, "but if you don't call me Al, I'll –"

"Potter? Weasley?" Ezekiel's tone was insuppressibly excited. Then he seemed to remember himself. "I mean, that's cool." The boat wafted on for a bit. The silence grew; Rose knew Ezekiel would not be able to maintain it. "Do you want to raid the kitchens with me later?" He suddenly asked, almost pathetically hopeful.

"Let's just try to get Sorted first, shall we?" Albus replied, his smile a bit too grim and straight to be entirely comfortable. Silence descended on the little boat after that, and Rose was left to the quickly whirring machinations of her own mind again. She was still furious, and not a little dubious – could her _parents_ really have done all that? – but Scorpius's story did make a lot of things fall into place finally. And it answered the queer little niggling that had been going on in the back of her mind for a long while. _This _was what she had been missing, this crucial information. The problem was that her parents had never told her. She was furious.

As the boat drew closer to the shores of Hogwarts, though, Rose's thoughts turned to a more pressing problem: the rapidly approaching Sorting. She had known for a while that Albus was fairly nervous about his Sorting; it was a bit hard to miss when he began half of their recent conversations with "If I'm not in Gryffindor . . ." like he had to write a will or something. But she had spent so much time reassuring Al that she had forgotten to be nervous about her own Sorting. Until now. Now, when she was already worked into a lather about her parents having lied to her practically her whole life, _now_, of course, the fact of her immediately approaching Sorting stamped itself inescapably on her mind.

Would she be in Gryffindor? What would she do if she wasn't? She wouldn't be the first of the Potter-Weasley-Lupin clan to be sorted into a different house. She wouldn't even be the first Slytherin of the bunch; Roxanne Weasley had taken that rather dubious honor last year, not that anyone was much surprised. Uncle George was oddly delighted, actually. "My Roxy's got ambition _and _humor _and _a nasty streak," he'd said proudly at the time. "What more could a father ask for to keep the boys away?" And Rose had never been upset at the prospect of joining her cousins Victoire or Molly in Ravenclaw. Until now. Now that it came right down to it, she wanted Gryffindor. The fact that she was currently furious at her parents, her grandparents, and all of her aunts and uncles did nothing to change that. She was a Weasley, a stubborn, red-headed (fine, auburn), freckled, gangly Weasley, and she realized now that she wanted to be in Gryffindor more than anything.

But what if she wasn't?

By the time the little boat reached the far shore of the lake, Rose was looking nearly as pale as Scorpius underneath her freckles. She looked over at Al, who looked queasy at best. She elbowed him and smiled weakly as they walked to the castle with the rest of the first-year crowd.

"The lovely green tint to your face brings out your eyes, Al," she quietly ribbed him, trying to give them both courage. He laughed; it sounded like a cross between James when he was singing in the shower and the sound a sponge makes when you drop it. Rose saw Scorpius glance over at them, then look away. It could have been tact, but he could also have been hiding a chuckle. Rose was reserving judgment on Scorpius for the time being. He might be as he seemed: an honest, open, somewhat quiet and quirky boy. Or he might be a conniving git. Only time would tell, just as only time would tell what Houses they would all be in. Very little time, in fact.

Rose's every thought came back to the Sorting as the great castle doors opened. The hall beyond was dark and imposing, the ceiling nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, the figure that opened the doors was slightly less intimidating; it was Neville who met them at the entrance and led them to the Great Hall.

To Rose, Neville Longbottom was just Uncle Neville, her parents' not-really-related-but-there-are-so-many-of-us-what's-one-more-Uncle-anyway friend who stopped by late at night with his wife Auntie Hannah for holidays sometimes. He always had a kind smile, a pat on the head, and a "You get prettier every year, Rosie," for her, before he'd disappear off with her parents and the rest of the Weasley siblings and their spouses to go get rip-roaringly drunk at his wife's pub. Rose had found this out at the age of seven.

_** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_**_**_**_

"I need sunglasses," her mother had muttered as Rose entered the kitchen the morning after Christmas. Hermione was not exhibiting any of her usual pep or composure this morning. She sat, or rather, sprawled around her cup of coffee like it was made of gold, stealing small sips carefully. The fingertips of her left hand found their way to her temples again and again, massaging gently. Her eyes drooped.

"Mummy, where did you go with Uncle Neville and Auntie Hannah last night?" Rose had asked after observing her mother for a few moments. Hermione was clearly startled: one arm flailed a bit as she sat up poker-straight and squinted in Rose's direction.

"It's Rose," she mumbled audibly to herself. "Mornin', Rosie," she said with a garish smile. "Would you mind doing Mummy a big favor?"

"What is it?"

"In the brown cabinet –"

"Which one? All the cabinets are brown."

"The one really close to the window – "

"The one in the sun?"

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, wincing. "That one. There's a small bottle on the top shelf – "

"Can I use a stool?"

"Yes. Whatever it takes." Rose hurried to comply; she didn't normally get to climb to the top shelves! "The bottle has red liquid in it!" Hermione called quietly after her daughter, wincing again. In record time, the little bottle with its ominously smoking red contents was sitting in front of Rose's mother, whose hands were at her temples again. Close up, Rose noticed, her mother's eyes were quite bloodshot, and she smelled kind of like the Muggle cough syrup she sometimes forced on her children.

"Are you ok, Mummy?"

"I will be," Hermione had muttered. She plugged her nose with one hand and poured some of the smoking, viscous liquid into her mouth. Her head was wreathed in smoke momentarily, which cleared when steam shot out of her ears. Rose cried out in alarm.

"It's ok, Rosie," said a much-improved Hermione, "Mummy's all better now."

"What _was_ that stuff?" Rose asked in awe.

"It's called Pepperup Potion. It can help adults feel better when they're . . . sick . . . in the morning."

"Why were you sick this morning?"

"Because your father and I were up late last night."

"With Uncle Neville and Auntie Hannah?"

"Yes."

"Doing what?"

"Adult things."

"Adult things that make you sick in the morning?" Hermione had laughed at that.

"You're too smart for your own good, Rosie. Yes."

"I _never_ want to do adult things," Rose had said fervently. Hermione had laughed again. After a pause, Rose asked, "Is Daddy feeling sick too?" Hermione glowered suddenly.

"Your father," she had said darkly, "_Your_ father ought to learn that having red hair does not make him Irish, and that when he and Harry try to out drink each other, it's Ginny and I who end up on the losing end. Often literally." Rose's eyes grew round, and Hermione softened. "Yes, your father is sick too. Or he will be, if life is fair and if he ever manages to get out of bed."

"What was he _drinking_?" Rose asked incredulously, just as a groan came from behind her.

"I'm _ne'er_ drinking Firewhishhhkey again," Ron slurred as he stumbled by her to sit at the table, head buried in his hands.

"You say that every time, dear," said Hermione sweetly, hiding the red potion and winking at Rose. Rose had smiled back a bit uncertainly, and filed away for later the fact that Uncle Neville and a lot of this so-called Firewhiskey might not be the best things for one's health.

_** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_**_**_**_

In the front hall of Hogwarts, Rose tried to reconcile the Uncle Neville in front of her, the fairly quiet, almost mousy man who snuck her sweets and snuck her parents out for drunken nights of reminiscing, with the Neville Longbottom Scorpius had described earlier. The Neville Longbottom who had taken the reins of the disbanded Dumbledore's Army in his seventh year; the Neville Longbottom who had been the bane of those who tried to subvert Hogwarts; the Neville Longbottom who killed Voldemort's last Horcrux (Scorpius had sworn them to secrecy about that part – he had said that not everyone knew about the Horcruxes, even now). She gave it up as a bad job the second the Professor opened his mouth.

"Hi," he said uncertainly. Many of the first-years had been gapingly observing the Hogwarts castle, the heavy wooden doors, or the impressive entryway; now every face turned towards Neville. He paused. Perhaps it was supposed to be intimidating, to encourage silence, but to Rose, it looked more like he was fumbling for the right words to say. Her fellow students seemed to be fooled though – at least, they all fell silent. Neville cleared his throat. "Hi," he said again, "I'm Professor Longbottom." There was tittering among the gathered students, and Rose realized that the Professor would also be famous for his heroic exploits. He tried to play it off. "Yes, I know it's a funny name." There was some laughter from the crowd, and Professor Longbottom smiled slightly in response. "As many of you may have noticed, this will be your first night at Hogwarts. I've been sent to welcome you, though I assure you that a far better welcome awaits us at the end of this hallway. So if you want to get to the part of the night where you get food, please pipe down and listen carefully.

"Hogwarts students are divided into four Houses . . ." The professor continued his introductions as he led the eager and anxious group towards the Great Hall. His familiarity was comforting to Rose, but plain nervousness was showing on the faces of many of her peers. There were whispers, hissing in echoes along the cavernous hall as Professor Longbottom talked on. Rose tuned them all out and examined her surroundings instead. Despite all she'd heard about Hogwarts, the old castle still awed her. She knew much of it had needed to be rebuilt after the Battle. It was easy to spot sections that had to be replaced: the stone looked much lighter in patches, and the faint marks of spell damage could still be seen spattered on the occasional wall or doorway. Still, the grandeur of the castle was left intact. Even the little of Hogwarts they saw on the walk towards the Great Hall was like something out of a fairy tale, with the (slightly dented) knights lining the hall and the endless corridors stretching off in any given direction. Rose felt anticipation steal over her like sunlight. This was _her_ school now, and someday soon she would know every one of these corridors and their tapestries and portraits like old friends; someday soon she would know all the secrets of the castle that her older cousins had only hinted at so far. Someday soon . . . but not just yet. For now, Hogwarts was cloaked in both mystery and shadow, and Rose was just an awestruck eleven-year-old staring wide-eyed at a castle beyond her wildest imaginings.

When at last they reached the enormous wooden doors, Uncle Neville stopped them. "Now," he began cautiously, "I would like you to line up. In a straight line. Silently. I know this is a lot to ask of you, but I have faith that you can manage it. We will begin the Sorting Ceremony shortly." The whispers started the instant he stopped talking: students whispered about which Houses they wanted, which Houses their parents were in, how cool it was that a war hero was to be one of their professors . . . Right now, that war hero looked remarkably flustered in the face of a horde whispering children. "I said, be quiet, please!" he reminded them, to no effect. Finally, he pointed his wand at his throat, and said in a magically amplified voice, "YOU'RE NERVOUS. I GET IT. YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST STUDENTS TO EVER GO THROUGH THIS. IT WILL BE ALL RIGHT. NOW SHUT UP IF YOU WANT TO BE SORTED." There was immediate quiet. "Thank you," Professor Longbottom said in a more normal voice. The first-year students paced into a line completely silently, for the first and probably last time in their Hogwarts careers.

The doors of the Great Hall opened, and even those who knew what to expect gasped. Rose's eyes traveled from the four students' tables arrayed to the left and right to the High table in front of them. There were many familiar faces staring back at her – James, Victoire, Roxanne, and all her other cousins, not to mention a beaming Hagrid, head and shoulders above the rest of the professors – but the majority looked unfamiliar. Even so, Rose thought she felt many eyes on her in the heavy, expectant silence. Unperturbed, she ignored the staring faces to look at the hundreds of candles that floated above the tables, winking like a weak mimicry of the stars on the ceiling. Luck had given them a crystal clear night for their Sorting; the ceiling above the Great Hall was generously daubed with constellations, and Rose even caught a glimpse of a few shooting stars as she tipped her head back in awe. A _thunk_ brought her back down to earth as a couple of students whose silver badges marked them as prefects carried a stool to the center of the Hall and set it down. Professor Longbottom, who had apparently been carrying the Sorting Hat the whole time, placed it on the stool gently. Rose suddenly remembered that he had a rather unorthodox history with the Hat; perhaps that was why he was the one given this job tonight. The silence in the Hall swelled to become almost unbearable; the ratty old Hat certainly knew how to make a dramatic entrance. Finally, a tear in the brim somewhere opened, and a raspy, seldom-used voice issued forth, carrying throughout the Hall:

You must all know that old am I,

Enthroned upon my stool

For ages I have been in use

As Hogwarts' Sorting tool.

The tradition began, long years ago,

When Hogwarts' founders four

Foresaw an era yet to come

When they would be no more.

Long they puzzled, much they thought,

Of what course they should take;

One thing alone seemed clear to all:

Their Houses must not break.

Gryffindors must yet retain

Their daring and brave heart,

And a Slytherin's ambition burns

Within them from the start

A Hufflepuff, forever true,

Finds pride in diligence

And Ravenclaw, so wise of mind,

Values intelligence.

Bearing all of this in mind,

'Twas Godric who decided,

That his old Hat could yet be used

To see the school divided.

And so it was, the Hogwarts four

To this old hat gave power

And knowledge deep of each

So that in this fateful hour

My task will be to place you

Where you will best be fit

And all of you can rest assured

I'm surely up to it!

Before you, I sit here today

And now you come to see:

Despite a patched appearance,

I'm the best Hat there could be!

The Hall erupted in applause. Neville cleared his throat for attention and began reading names from a sheet of parchment that seemed dauntingly endless to Rose. Weasley was so close to the end of the alphabet . . .

Rose tried to stand quietly as a tall, sticklike girl named Agrippina Alberton was sorted into Ravenclaw. She started fidgeting as the hat declared Bradford Bletchley the first Slytherin of their year. He looked like a very humanoid bear as he lumbered to the green and silver table, his dark eyes small slits in his smiling face. When a widely grinning Sarah Finch-Fletchy was sorted into Hufflepuff, Rose glowered in response. Not that the poor girl deserved it; she looked about as mean as a mushed banana.

By the time James Harper became a Hufflepuff, Rose was full-on shaking. Albus, seemingly a million spots ahead of her in the queue, looked like a cello string that had been plucked recently. Rose looked down at her shoes and concentrated very hard on not being sick all over them. She was excited, she reminded herself, she was excited, and Hogwarts would be great, and she was far too furious at her parents to be the least bit nervous. She stared at her shoes as though maybe they would help sink her beneath the floor if she wished hard enough, to put off this moment of Sorting forever. She stared, and stared, and -

"Scorpius Malfoy." she looked up, unable to help herself. The Great Hall fell quiet, with scattered whispers as students informed their Muggle-born friends precisely why the room suddenly felt like a sepulcher. Scorpius bore it well, though he did look a little uncertain and awfully tiny as he sat on the stool. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head; like most first-years, his head was far too small. Only his bottom lip and pointed chin showed once it had settled. There was a dreadful silence. The Hat took an unusually long time, until finally, finally, the rip in the brim parted, and the Hat pronounced its verdict.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

There was a dreadful silence.

Scorpius Malfoy reached up slowly, removing the Sorting Hat from his head carefully, as though it might break. He looked out into a sea of faces that stared back at him in utterly bewildered, almost hostile silence.

"Well, I can't say I expected _that_," he said, and smiled a small, slightly crooked smile. His voice echoed a bit. He stood rigidly. The room was still silent. The tableau seemed frozen.

Finally, Fred Weasley catcalled loudly. Louis, glancing briefly at his cousin, began clapping slowly. The rest of the Gryffindor table joined in piecemeal, and soon their whole area was vibrating with applause and raucous cheers. Most of them were friendly. Scorpius visibly relaxed as the silence was broken; he walked off the dais to join his new peers, finding a seat on the very edge of the bench at the far end of the table. His face bore a slight smile, but his eyes remained wide as he looked around him.

For all Connor McLaggen's swagger, he did not generate nearly as much excitement when he, too, was Sorted into Gryffindor. But only a short while later, Neville called Al's name.

Albus was visibly shaking as he approached the platform; the Great Hall was once again oppressively silent in anticipation. Rose had known he was nervous about his Sorting, but the additional pressure of his newfound fame seemed to really be getting to him. It was either that or the twenty cockroach clusters he had consumed on the Hogwarts Express. He appeared to falter as he approached the stool. Actually, it looked like he almost tripped and fell on his face.

A voice called out, "You got it, Potter!" from the otherwise quiet crowd. Albus's head swung around, and he met James's eyes. The older boy gave him a thumbs up and a smile as Rose watched and nodded slightly. James's heart was almost always in the right place, unlike his hair. The cheer seemed to give Albus the strength, or rather, the balance he needed to continue.

The Hat looked very comical indeed perched atop his small head, but it wasn't there for long before it declared in a particularly satisfied tone:

"GRYFFINDOR!" Albus heaved an enormous sigh as the red and gold table erupted in cheers. "Two for two!" James kept shouting. "I knew you could do it, you snake, you!" He enveloped his brother in an enormous hug, which quickly turned into a dog-pile as members of his own house and family members from other houses joined in.

"If you would please," Neville began timidly. No one was listening. He pointed his wand to his throat and spoke the amplification spell again. "IF YOU WOULD PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEATS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. I WOULD HATE TO HAVE TO GIVE OUT DETENTIONS BEFORE DINNER, AND THERE ARE CHILDREN HERE, SHAKING IN THEIR BOOTS, THAT CANNOT BE SORTED UNTIL YOU LOT **SHUT UP!**" The Hall fell quiet again.

"Thank you," said Neville, back to his normal volume. "Let us proceed."

Rose didn't know if she got more nervous or less as the line of first-years began to dwindle. Her right hand was feverishly running pentatonic scales up and down her leg, and she thought she was starting to sweat slightly. But at the same time she didn't feel as though she could possibly get any tenser: she was at a plateau. And still the names continued. She glanced over at the Gryffindor table, where Al had joined Scorpius and another first-year named Annabelle Orion at the Gryffindor table. Anabelle's blond curls bounced as she laughed at one of James's jokes. Rose glared at the back of her head and tapped her foot in time to her scales. Rastor Rosier and Ezekiel Smith went to Slytherin, one after the other, and Rose saw Rastor's smile flash white in his tan face as Ezekiel approached the table. Tiny Chessany Tamelle went timidly to join the Ravenclaw table to the sound of her new housemates' cheers. The line dwindled: twenty students . . . ten . . . five . . .

And finally, mercifully, Professor Longbottom called her name. The room was silent again, and Rose felt the full weight of everyone's gazes as she approached the stool. Uncle Neville stood smiling and patted her shoulder as she clambered onto the stool. He grinned at her as he placed the Hat on her small head. The world went dark.

"Another Weasley," said a voice in her ear. It seemed to sigh. "There was once a time I thought I knew just what to do with all of you, but now . . . let's see. Her mother's brains, certainly," _another knut_ thought Rose, "I'm sure you hear that all the time," continued the Hat as though it had heard. "So you could be a Ravenclaw, but –"

"_But what?" _Rose thought. This time, the Hat definitely heard.

"But I'm not done with you yet."

"_I'd like to be in Gryffindor rather a lot," _Rose interrupted, trying to be patient and polite.

"Of course you would. Now let's see. You've your father's loyalty, you Weasleys inherit that as often as you end up with red hair."

"_Mine's auburn,"_ Rose thought stubbornly.

"No matter. There's bravery here, and determination, no little bit of ambition, and wit to boot. This is a very tough decision," said the Hat. "These matters can't be rushed. So many possibilities, all hinging on this. Hmmmmmm." Rose gritted her teeth.

"_What are you going to do with me?" _Rose thought. "_What does all of that mean?_"

"It means," said the Hat in her ear, "That yet another Weasley is going to GRYFFINDOR!" The last word was shouted out across the Great Hall, and the red and gold table erupted. Rose's smile felt like it was cracking her face in half as she took of the Sorting Hat and, laughing wildly, ran to join the Gryffindor table. It felt like homecoming. There was madness, and happiness, and nearly another Weasley-Potter dog-pile, but then Professor Longbottom cleared his throat with the aid of magical amplification, and the tumult died down.

Still, Rose couldn't have been happier as she joined an ecstatic Albus and a rather bewildered Scorpius at the Gryffindor table. The rest of the Feast was a complete blur. She didn't even remember to pay attention to Headmistress Sprout's start-of-year speech. Small matter; Teddy could practically recite it by heart, and she was sure cousin Molly would be happy to fill her in later. The food was delicious, she remembered, nearly as good as Grandma Weasley's cooking. She waved to Uncle Neville at the High Table, she remembered, and he waved back, giving her a subtle thumbs up before being distracted by Headmistress Sprout trying to engage him in a lively conversation with hand gestures that looked like she was trying to mimic a Venomous Tentacula. She got some good-natured ribbing from her cousins, she remembered, and a ghostly sigh from Nearly Headless Nick that went through her like ice ("A Potter and a Weasley in Gryffindor, yet again. Why, it reminds me almost of the old days. Try not to get yourselves nearly killed so often as your parents did, what say you?").

But what she remembered most, at least later, was that, before heading off to their own dormitories, all of her cousins stopped by the Gryffindor table at the end of the meal to say a hearty hello. And every single one of them warned Rose not to try to sneak out that night. James, Louis, and Fred even ganged up on she and Al once they had reached Gryffindor Tower.

"Now, this is going to sound strange, coming from the lot of us," Louis began, brushing his straight, glossy red hair back from his eyes. It fell forward again, and he glared.

"Hey! I'm the oldest; _I _get to do the talking here!" Fred interrupted. He drew himself up to his full height, which was considerably taller than either Rose or Albus. "My ickle firstie cousins, we are proud and honored to have you join us in the great and noble House of Gryffindor."

"I don't know about _proud_," James said with a grin and an evil glint in his brown eyes, "More like 'too shocked to protest' in my case." He got Al in a headlock. Their little family powwow went to pieces as the two brothers started an all-out wrestling brawl on the floor of the Gryffindor Common Room.

"_James!_" came Al's high-pitched wail as James sat down heavily on his chest.

"James, stop it." Everyone looked around in surprise as Fred chastised his cousin. "This is serious."

"_Merde_, will you two give it a rest and get on with it!" Louis protested. "I've got some evil schemes to lay tonight, and none of them involve sitting here and growing old while you lot bicker."

"Fine," James said, releasing Al's right leg and left arm from where they were wrenched behind his back. Al got to his feet gracelessly.

"As I was saying before I was so _rudely_ interrupted: we are proud and honored to have you join Gryffindor. We're very much looking forward to sharing a house with you both, and making your lives interesting and mind-bogglingly insane by turn. However, we _solemnly promise," _he said, looming over them suddenly, "that we will make your lives a living hell if you try to sneak out of this Tower for _any reason whatsoever_ tonight. Got it?" Fred wasn't normally very scary, but he had apparently picked up the knack from his mother; Merlin knows Uncle George was never that menacing. Al and Rose nodded, their movements small and slow.

"_Bon_," said Louis happily. "Now that that's over with, I could use your assistance with some small matters, gentlemen. Al, Rosie, I must bid you a fond goodnight. Fred, James, this way, if you would be so kind . . ." the three boys headed towards a corner to plot their latest mischiefs, but James turned back and caught Al's eyes one last time.

"It's gonna be a great six years, little brother. I think we might actually learn to get along someday," he said with a huge grin. "But if you sneak out tonight, I'll kill you myself."

Al and Rose exchanged silent glances, and headed up to their separate dormitories, nodding gravely to Scorpius Malfoy along the way. Rose was so curious she was almost tempted to sneak out, just to see what would happen. But facing down an army troop's worth of furious cousins was nothing to bat an eye at. As she climbed the winding staircase to the girls' dormitory, she wisely decided to let it be. For now.

Rose had told herself that she was going to stay up all night tonight to get to know her new roommates; maybe they'd be up to planning a prank on the first-year Gryffindor boys, given a little persuasion. But she had been late out of the Great Hall after dinner because of her cousins, and Fred, Louis, and Jame's last little stunt had made her even later than the rest of her peers. She was the last of the first-year Gryffindor girls to reach the dormitory that night, and although she found her trunk waiting at the foot of a very enticing four-poster bed, she did not find any of her roommates awake. They most definitely had the right idea, though, Rose reasoned. There would be enough time for mischief on the morrow. Warm and comfortable, Rose curled into a ball on her bed and fell asleep, thinking pleasant thoughts and dreaming pleasant dreams of warm chocolate cake and the look on Albus's face when the girls would pull their first prank. She smiled in her sleep.

For now.

_**Author's Note: **_

_Hello, readers! As always, thank you so much to those of you who have been faithfully reading this story; this website, and this story, could not possibly exist without all of you. And thank you especially to those who have taken the time to add me or my story to their favorite, and especially especially to those who have given me reviews! If virtual cookies were a good thing, I would definitely give you some. Also, I just realized this chapter is superlong. Like, fruit-by-the-foot long. Wow. Um. Sorry? _

_Sooooooo . . . now that I'm back home for a good, long while, I'm hoping to get on a more regular update schedule. I'm thinking weekly will probably work best for me, and Saturdays are great because the weekend is awesome already, and nothing makes it better than getting a lot of notification emails from :) No, seriously, it makes my day like you wouldn't believe every single time. Also, as I write, I'm beginning to see the development of an actual plotline (gasp!), and I think I may be stuck writing this story for the long haul. There's a lot more to come for Al, Rose, and Scorpius; I'm kind of excited by it, if a little intimidated by the task I appear to have taken on. I hope you're all excited as well (as there's no need for you to be intimidated). _

_Anyways, thank you all again for reading, all the way to the bottom of the mostly-pointless-and-totally-rambling Author's Note. As always, your thoughts on the story, characterization, plotline (when there actually is one), style, etc., etc., etc. are always, always welcome. Have a great week! T-t-t-t-t-hats all (for now) folks!_

_P.S. - I don't know if it looks as though I've updated when I merely go back and edit a bit, but I'm sorry to disappoint if it does. As I said above, new chapters will be posted on Saturdays. This was just me fixing a few minor things, like all the completely irrelevant shenanigans in my Author's Notes. I still love you all for reading!  
><em>


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4: The Feast of the Annunciation**

_**Disclaimer: **__"I gave Luzhin my French governess, my pocket chess set, my sweet temper, and the stone of the peach I plucked in my own walled garden," writes Vladimir Nabokov of the protagonist in his novel __The Luzhin Defense__. The more I write this story, the more I find that I also have a habit of giving my characters things that are familiar. I have an odd habit of playing piano scales on the nearest surface (often my leg) when I get particularly nervous: this I gave to Rose. Al begins to remind me in some ways of my brother, a very what-if/why/mood-swings-of-a-hippogriff kind of guy. And much of Rose's impetuousness and stubbornness comes directly to you from one of my longtime best friends, who has not the slightest inkling that this story is being written. I've got no idea where Scorpius comes from. That said, I can give the characters traits, I can decide what they will like and dislike, I can sit here with my master plan and hash out what the rest of their fictive lives will be like. But they are not mine. These characters and pretty much the entire magical world belong to the mind of J.K. Rowling. Please keep that in mind as you read: everything belongs to Rowling. Except the weird stuff - that's all me. Thanks, and enjoy!_

It was still dark in the dormitory when Rose started awake. She blinked blearily a few times trying to figure out what had jarred her so completely out of a well-deserved sleep. She was furiously rubbing her gummed eyes when she heard a distinctive "creak" from the floorboards near her four-poster bed. Perhaps a similar creak had woken her up? She had little time to ponder that before the curtains were thrust forcefully back from her bed. A large figure loomed over her. An instant later, an exasperated, feminine, and very familiar voice came from a smaller figure at the foot of her bed.

"_Muffliato._ Oh, for heaven's sake, will you never learn just a little bit of caution, R-"

"No names!" the woman's companion rasped as he neatly pulled a blindfold around Rose's head. He knotted it gently. Rose was too stupefied by sleep and surprise to even react. "Oh, and _silencio_." She suddenly found that she couldn't talk, even if she had wanted too. There was a heavy silence. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right," the man seemed to explain himself to his partner. _What is 'this'?_ Rose found herself wondering.

"Oh, very well," the feminine voice grumbled. Rose felt herself being steered out of her bed and into her slippers. The large hand on her shoulder was firm but not cruel as it pushed her towards the door of the dormitory. The man on the other end of the arm leaned down to rasp in her ear.

"It would probably be best for all of us if you don't struggle." His tone didn't match the vaguely threatening words; he sounded as though he was smiling. _Oh, it's a kidnapping_. Rose's brain was processing unusually slowly; it felt as though the world was coming at her through a tea strainer. _Maybe I should fight?_

"Melodramatic as ever, dear," came the woman's wry voice. A smaller hand grasped Rose's other shoulder and squeezed in reassuringly. "No worries, love," the woman whispered in her ear. Rose knew that voice, even as a whisper, and it was only for that reason that she allowed herself to be led blindly out of the portrait hole of Gryffindor tower and through the corridors of Hogwarts. At first she tried to keep track of where she was, but her very limited knowledge of the castle rather hindered her efforts. Soon it was all a mess of turns in her mind. Right, left, right, right. Stairs, sloping hallways, doors – it all ran together in Rose's mind. Finally, they came to a halt.

"This is it, right?" asked the man a bit uncertainly.

"This is it," the woman affirmed quietly. The man's hand kept Rose in place, but she heard the sound of feet pacing nearby. It was the only sound for the moment - the echo was swallowed by the carpeting Rose could feel under her slippers. The man let out a "whoosh" of breath in what sounded like satisfaction.

"You were right," he said.  
>"Always the tone of surprise," admonished the woman. Rose heard the sound of a door being opened and felt herself being pushed gently inside. The man and woman followed her. There was silence in the new room, aside from the crackling of a fire somewhere off to Rose's left. Then a loud guffaw sounded.<p>

"You blindfolded her, Ron?" came an incredulous voice from inside the room. Rose grinned uncertainly beneath the blindfold, her suspicions confirmed. She pulled one edge of the cloth up and winked at her Uncle Harry.

"We all know my brother has a flair for the dramatic," Aunt Ginny said from behind Harry. "Are you really surprised?"

"Not in the least," Harry conceded, rolling his eyes. He put his arm around Albus's small shoulders; his son was seated next to him on the floor near the fire. "But I'll have you know that I, for one, didn't feel it necessary to blindfold and _silencio_ my child to get him here." Ron looked bashful as he helped remove Rose's blindfold and undid his spellwork, but his grin was unrepentant.

"If we're going to do this, we ought to do it right, that's all I think. Make it a real surprise."

"What are we doing, anyway?" Albus asked. Rose looked around and shared his confusion. They appeared to be in a smaller version of the Gryffindor common room, complete with crimson and gold wall hangings and a roaring fireplace. In the middle of the room stood a wooden table, large enough for all of them, surrounded by six mismatched but cozy-looking chairs. The table was loaded with an assortment of food: sweets, snacks of all varieties, and tea mugs filled to the brim and steaming gently in front of each of the seats.

No one responded to Al immediately. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny stood up, brushed themselves off, and exchanged glances with Rose's parents. The adults moved to the table and stood behind four of the chairs. Rose and Albus followed suit, looking at them expectantly. The four shared several knowing glances, but Uncle Harry was the first to break the silence.

"Rose Weasley and Albus Potter," he began formally, as if to answer Albus's question at last, "Welcome to your fist night at Hogwarts." He ended with a mischievous grin.

"Tonight, you embark on a wonderful journey," Aunt Ginny added, and the words came out almost as a chant, as though she had memorized them.

"Tonight is the first night of what may well be the most interesting seven years of your life." Rose's mother joined in. Harry, Ginny, and Hermione looked expectantly at Ron.

"Er, what's my line?" he asked, fumbling in his jacket pocket. "Aha! Here we go." He withdrew a small piece of paper. "Tonight, you officially join the tanks of the students of Hogwarts. Er – ranks, that must say ranks. Tonight, you officially join the ranks of the students of Hogwarts," he tried to end solemnly, but the spell had been broken. Rose and Albus were wracked with giggles.

"This is serious, you two!" Hermione said reprovingly, but Rose saw her turn aside to hide her own grin. Rose stuffed her first in her mouth to keep from laughing.

"One score less twelve years ago – " Uncle Harry began, only to be interrupted by Ron's stage whisper.

"That's eight years ago, right, Hermione?" His wife made a shushing motion.

" – We brought forth upon Hogwarts an unmitigated disaster in the form of one very unprepared Teddy Lupin. Our, erm, learning experiences in the form of the . . . um, incidences that followed inspired us to begin a new tradition." Harry paused and took a deep breath. "Rose and Albus, welcome to the Feast of the Annunciation."

"The Feast of what?" Al and Ron asked, simultaneously.

"Annunciation. It's like an announcement," Hermione explained to her nephew and her husband. "You knew that, Ron, we've been doing this for seven years now."

Up until that moment, Rose had forgotten that she was furious with her parents, and with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny, for that matter. The tense fear she had felt upon realizing that there were intruders in the dormitory; the confusion and excitement of figuring out that it was her _parents_ who were "kidnapping" her; the anticipation of whatever crazy tradition she was becoming part of; all of these had wiped her anger from her mind. Until now. Rose started to put two and two together, but kept her mouth shut in a firm line. For now.

"Let's all sit down and eat something before we really get started. This sort of thing is no fun on an empty stomach," Aunt Ginny said. Albus was only too happy to comply, all thoughts apparently driven out of his head by the presence of treacle tart. He and his father reached for it at the same time, and Uncle Harry laughed as he let Al take the lion's share.

"Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, Al. Just you wait, I'll be finishing that plate for you."

"You're on." Conversation around the table was limited as the little group filled their plates and started eating. They talked about the Sorting Ceremony, about which dormitory and which four-poster bed each of them had claimed, about hundred other meaningless things. Then the conversation stalled altogether. Rose's eyes widened as she watched Aunt Ginny stir six lumps of sugar into her tea; apparently she anticipated a long night ahead. Rose's mother seemed to have the same thought.

"Maybe we should talk about what we came here to talk about," Hermione said in a leading tone. "It is, after all, midnight, and special permission or no, I don't think Headmistress Sprout would be happy to find these two out of bed at dawn."

"True enough." Uncle Harry agreed. "This is simultaneously my favorite and least favorite night of the year, just so you all know." He sighed again, and his face turned grim. "Al and Rosie, we didn't just bring you here tonight so that you could eat more dessert – let's be honest, the two of you don't need more sugar. We didn't even bring you here so that you couldn't sneak out of Gryffindor tower your first night at school, though Merlin knows I wish someone had done that for me. We – "

"You snuck out your first night?" Albus demanded. Uncle Harry and Rose's father had the grace to look ashamed.

"Yes, and we almost died," Ron said emphatically. Rose rolled her eyes. "We did!"

"Yes, well, I think we all learned a valuable lesson that night, didn't we?" Hermione asked.

"You were out of bed after hours just as the rest of us were, Hermione, don't think I don't remember it."

"Yes, dear, but if I recall correctly, it was your fault that I was stuck outside the tower in the first place," his wife replied sweetly. Harry looked between the two of them and laughed.

"Some things never change. Anyways," he began over the sounds of his best friends' bickering, "We brought you here because there's something you should know. There are certain things that we didn't want you kids growing up with – "

"Like heads the size of the Great Hall," muttered Ron.

" – but we learned the hard way that those are the same certain things you should know before you start Hogwarts. Remind me when we're done to tell you about Teddy's first day." Harry paused and looked at Ginny, green eyes as serious as Rose had ever seen. "Remind me where I'm supposed to start with this again?"

"The beginning is usually good, Harry," she said gently. Harry heaved another great sigh, rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, and put his hands down on the table like he needed something to hold onto.

"Al, you've never met your Grandma and Grandpa Potter."

"I know, Dad. They died when you were little, so you had to go live with the Dursleys."

"Right. And the Dursleys told me that my parents had died in a car accident."

"But wizards can't –"

"I know, Al." Harry held up his hand. "I know. The Dursleys lied to me. The truth was much worse. And, much like you, I didn't learn the whole of it until I started at Hogwarts.

"My parents were murdered when I was a year old. They died protecting me from a Dark wizard who was specifically targeting me because it had been prophesied that – "

"That only you could kill him, when no one else could?" Rose broke in. Aunt Ginny and her mother gasped in surprise, but Rose held her Uncle Harry's eyes across the table. She sat back in her chair, folding her arms, and continued in a cold voice, "Tell us something we don't know, Uncle Harry." Never let it be said that she didn't come by her flair for the dramatic honestly.

There was silence. Rose refused to break it, but of course Al had no such compunctions.

"We found out on the train today, Dad! About you, and Uncle Ron, and Aunt Hermione, and Voldemort – the whole thing! You guys are _so cool!_"

"At least someone thinks so," Ron muttered, looking over at Rose. She had turned away from all of them, still furious. There was more silence, and then Hermione spoke.

"Out of all the compartments, and all the students on the Hogwarts Express today, how on earth did you two end up sitting with Scorpius Malfoy?"

"How could you know that?" Rose demanded, forgetting momentarily that she wasn't speaking to any of them.

"Yeah, seriously," Ron echoed his daughter, "How could you know that?"

"How many children on that train would know of the prophecy?" Hermione asked in return. "There were children there today whose parents were in Dumbledore's Army, that's certain, but none whose parents were in the inner circle of the Order – the ones who would have known. The confirmed existence of a prophecy is not common knowledge, even now. From our side of the War, only our older children and nieces, nephews, godchildren, et cetera, would know about it, and Merlin help them if they told. That means it must have been a Death Eater's child. And who would Voldemort have told? Severus Snape knew, certainly. But he's dead. Bellatrix Lestrange, probably, and thank Merlin she left no spawn behind. And Lucius Malfoy, who would have told his son Draco, who has apparently not been as reticent with little Scorpius as we have with our children."

"We've known each other twenty-six years, Hermione," Harry broke in weakly, "And you still manage to amaze me."

"They didn't call me the 'brightest witch of my age' for nothing," Rose's mother said with a slight smile.

"Well," began Aunt Ginny, "Malfoy may have managed to ruin our surprise, but we've still got a story to tell. There are still some things we should explain."

"Didn't you hear me, Aunt Ginny? Al and I know _everything_ already. All I want you to explain is why you all _lied_ to me for eleven years!" Rose was nearly crying.

"Rose," Hermione said softly. "Rosie, we know you're mad. And we understand, and we'll do everything we can to explain why we made this choice. But Lucius did not know all, his son Draco probably knew less, and Scorpius Malfoy certainly does not know _everything. _There is still much of the story that you haven't heard."

"Like _what_?" Rose demanded.

"Like the fact that I was Voldemort's seventh Horcrux," Uncle Harry said quietly. Rose and Al turned to face him, jaws slack, eyes good and goggled, incredulity etched on every feature. "Can we finish telling the story now, Rosie?" he asked.

" . . ."

"I'll take that as a yes."

_** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_**_**_**_

"You guys are _even cooler_ than I thought you were," Al said seriously when the story was finally done. Rose had to agree, albeit reluctantly.

The telling had taken nearly an hour and a half to complete, despite the fact that Rose and Al already knew a lot of it. Of course, they had learned a great deal that afternoon on the Hogwarts Express, but they were also surprised by how much of the story their parents _had_ already told them throughout the years. Rose's earlier suspicions had been confirmed: they had gotten most of the stories, but none of the context. The story of Professor Quirrell trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone had been one of her favorites growing up; the fact that he had Voldemort attached to the back of his head at the time had been conveniently left out, until now. Also familiar was the tale of Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban, and the subsequent havoc he wreaked on Uncle Harry's life during his third year; tonight they learned about the fourth Marauder, about little Peter Pettigrew and his big betrayal, about his hiding in plain sight, and about his eventual escape to Voldemort's service. About his role in Voldemort's resurrection. Indeed, during the Feast there were a lot of missing pieces that got filled in: the full scope and meaning of the prophecy, the background and context of all their parents' crazy adventures at Hogwarts, the Deathly Hallows, the Battle of Hogwarts, and of course the part about Uncle Harry being a Horcrux.

"Yeah, well, we didn't feel that cool at the time," Rose's father said, sighing. "Mostly we just felt tired. Or maybe hungry. Or maybe just plain lucky. No, actually, mostly we just felt sore."

"These things sound a lot better when you tell them afterwards," Aunt Ginny put in. "We've learned that over the years."

"Ok, so you guys are war heroes. And I'll admit all of that stuff you did was pretty amazing. But why -" Rose began to ask the same question she'd asked a million times already.

"Didn't we tell you?" chorused her parents, Uncle Harry, Aunt Ginny, and Al.

"Yes," said Rose, the wind entirely taken out of her very frustrated sails. "That."

"Rose," began her mother, putting down her empty teacup, "There are a lot of reasons that we're just telling you all this now. The most important is that, and don't take this the wrong way, sweetie, but it's very difficult for children to keep secrets. There are many parts of the story that we just told you that should, or even must, remain secrets."

"Like what?" asked Al.

"Like what kept Voldemort alive for all of those years, for one," Aunt Ginny answered quietly. "It may be hard for you to understand without having been there, but Horcruxes themselves are a terrible force, never mind the horrific process of making them. Truthfully, I think the fewer people know about their existence, the better. There are a lot of people in this world that are very ambitious. And far too few of them have enough scruples. No, I think Horcruxes are best left out of the common knowledge." Rose had to agree.

"Or like the prophecy," said Hermione. "There were many who suspected that Harry was the Chosen One, but none of them had any _proof_. They still don't. And, like Headmaster Dumbledore explained to Harry once, the prophecy itself wasn't dictating his actions. His _life, _his _beliefs, _his _choices_: those dictated what he did. Not the words. People tend to set far too much store in the words on a dusty shelf, forgetting that, no matter how gifted the Seer, they may never come true. Would you give credence to that philosophy? By keeping the secret of the prophecy, we try not to."

"Or about the true existence of the Deathly Hallows," Ron continued. "A perfect Invisibility Cloak, an unbeatable wand, and a stone that can bring back the dead? Well, at least sort of. Those are things that are better left buried in legends and kids' stories. Or you'd have all sorts of people swarming your poor Uncle Harry trying to find them."

"Do you all still know where they are?" asked Rose with sudden interest. The adults seemed uncomfortable for a moment, exchanging glances as though unsure of the correct answer.

"Yes," said Uncle Harry at last. "They're hidden. But no one else knows, and we'd like it to stay that way."

"I promise," said Al immediately, "I'll never tell. About the Horcruxes, or the prophecy, or the Hallows, or any of it."

"I promise too," said Rose.

"But could you have kept that promise when you were five or six?" Hermione asked. "Or seven or eight? We trust you now to watch what you say, to think before you speak, but could we have put the same trust in you two years ago? There's a big difference between nine and eleven. We had to draw the line somewhere," she explained.

"How could we trust you with something this big when we couldn't even trust you not to track mud into the house?" Ginny asked with a smile.

"You still can't trust James not to track mud into the house," Al pointed out reasonably.

"Very true. But you understand what I mean, Al."

"I do."

"And me too," Rose admitted grudgingly.

"So that's the big reason," Hermione continued, "we couldn't tell you about things that had to stay secret. And everything is so interrelated . . . once we had decided that the Horcruxes and the prophecy had to remain a secret, it would have been very difficult to tell the full story of Harry killing Voldemort. We told you what we could. But there were other reasons for keeping the secret as well."

"Like what?" asked Al again.

"Like, if we do it this way, we get to sneak our kids out of their respective towers every year, kidnap them, set up a feast, and introduce them to the Room of Requirement here," Uncle Harry answered with a grin. "You've no idea how much fun we have doing this. It's almost like being back at Hogwarts again."

"It's much better than Auror paperwork," Ron agreed, "though not nearly as easy to fall asleep over."

"So you've done this with all of us?" Rose asked.

"Well, we started with Victoire," Aunt Ginny answered. "And of course, it was Harry and I, and Ron and Hermione, but Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur came that year as well."

"We usually do the four of us plus whoever's parents we're talking to."

"So all the older kids have already been to the Feast of the Anunciation," Al said. "Which explains why they nearly scared the magic out of Rose and I trying to make sure we didn't sneak out for anything tonight."

"Did they?" Ron asked with a laugh.

"Fred, Louis, and James threatened to make our lives a living hell. I thought Al was going to faint right there, like that one time Dominique stalked him with her makeup bag," Rose said, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

"I _did not_ faint – " Al started to protest.

"Ok, ok, maybe they took their jobs a little too seriously," said Rose's father, chuckling. "We'll tell them to go easier on Lily and Hugo next time. And you two as well. Don't want anyone fainting into the Common Room fire." They all laughed, but then the room grew quiet. Everyone was mulling. Rose stared into the fire; tonight had been a lot to process, and truth be told she was getting awfully sleepy. The warm fire, the full stomach (for the second time that night!), not to mention that it had to be at least two in the morning. She looked around. The adults looked tired as well, and Al could barely keep his eyes open. He had leaned his head against the side of the chair, using part of his arm as a makeshift pillow; he began to snore slightly.

"I think we're all getting a little tired," said Uncle Harry. Al started awake.

"What? No, I'm completely awake!" he exclaimed. "You still have to tell us about Teddy's first day at Hogwarts!"

"Yeah," Rose agreed, "I'd really like to know why he was such an . . . 'unmitigated disaster,' I think you said."

"Was he ever!" said Aunt Ginny emphatically. "All right, one more story, and then it's off to bed with you two." She sat back in her chair and looked at her brother. "Ron, I think you should start this one. It was, after all, partly your fault." Ron looked abashed, but Uncle Harry chuckled.

"All right, all right. Fine. Here's what happened . . ." Rose's father explained how none of them had even really thought to tell Teddy, well, anything, before sending him off to Hogwarts. Their general approach to child-rearing up until that point had apparently been "If he's still in one piece, we're doing a fine job," which, admittedly, was probably more than one could say for the Dursley's approach to child-rearing. But to the survivors of the Battle of Hogwarts, to the beloved Golden Trio of the Wizarding World, what was important was that their children grew up knowing that something like Voldemort's rise to power could _never happen again_. It seemed more important to teach little Teddy Lupin about the ideals his parents had died to protect, more important to teach him about what was right and wrong, more important to teach him that it was _never _ok to use his Metamorphagus abilities to terrify small children at the Muggle park, even if they did knock over his sandcastle. "But that's a different story," said Ron. "We'll tell you some other time." What didn't seem important at the time – small details like, "Oh, by the way, your godfather killed Voldemort" – suddenly became rather pressing when Uncle Harry, Aunt Ginny, and Andromeda Tonks realized as the Hogwarts Express was pulling away from Platform 9 ¾ that they had never really told Teddy about their own role in the Wizarding War. Harry had apparently tried to remedy the situation by running after the train yelling "I killed Voldemort!" which earned him a lot of strange looks, but failed to penetrate the glass windows and metal exterior of the Hogwarts Express. Then there was the panicked mirror-message to Rose's father, who happened to be a lot closer to a quill, parchment, and an owl than Harry was at the time.

Ron's hastily written message to Teddy read as follows:

**Harry killed Voldemort. I helped. Enjoy your first year. Don't trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.**

This last part was, apparently, the only advice Rose's father could come up with on such short notice. It did not do Teddy Lupin very much good at all. Later, when they were called in for a special godparent-grandparent-student-most-of-Hogwarts-staff-and-faculty-too-for-that-matter conference, Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny learned that Teddy had received the letter at breakfast on his first morning after the Sorting. He had left the Great Hall rather rapidly and didn't attend any of his classes that morning. But a suspiciously-young-looking Harry Potter showed up to second period Potions: an eleven-year-old Harry Potter, in fact. He told all of his classmates that he had come from the past because he "didn't feel like defeating Voldemort, and if you want him dead, you can bloody well go back and do it yourselves!" This, it might be imagined, caused rather a lot of havoc. Panic ensued as a lot of very young students convinced themselves that, through some sort of time paradox, Voldemort was going to come crashing through the doors any instant. When the then-new Professor Wistorren had shown up ten minutes late to class, having gotten tricked by a staircase on the way, he found his classroom in shambles: three girls huddled crying under a desk, a burly boy had armed himself with a cauldron and attacked some suspiciously snakelike chairs, and half the class was trying to hide in the supply closet. And an unconvincingly repentant Teddy Lupin, back to his own appearance, explained the situation and excused himself with, "I just wanted to see if it was true. I didn't believe it, that was all."

Headmistress McGonagall was very old indeed by that time, but she was still one of the only people who could make the great Harry Potter "shake in his robes like he had a herd of Acromantulas after him," according to Rose's father ("No, Ron, it's you who's afraid of spiders, mate." "That's not the point.").

"I believe her exact words," Aunt Ginny broke in, breathless from laughing, "were 'Mr. Potter, war hero or no, if another one of _your_ relatives wreaks havoc on _my_ school as a direct result of _your_ irresponsibility, I'll have you arrested for property damage.'"

"And then!" said Ron, hooting with laughter, "And then! Harry tried to tell her that she couldn't have him arrested, because he was the Head of the Auror department, and who would she send to arrest him? And she said –"

"She said, 'Let me rephrase this, Potter. You _will_ fix this problem, and you _will _prevent it from happening again, or _I _will tell Percy Weasley over at the Ministry that all future Hogwarts disciplinary cases are to be taken directly to the Head of the Auror department. I hope you like paperwork more now than you did while you were my student, Mr. Potter.'" Hermione did a very good impersonation of Headmistress McGonagall, from what Rose could remember of her.

"You should have seen the look on your face!" Aunt Ginny cried. Harry shook his head, smiling.

"And thus was the Feast of the Annunciation born," he concluded. "With, of course, the permission of Headmistress McGonagall, and Headmistress Sprout after her."

Rose and Al were in stitches. Their parents watched them. Well, Harry and Hermione watched; Ron and Ginny were too busy laughing themselves. Eventually, even Hermione's composure cracked, and she dissolved into giggles. The little family of six sat laughing around the table in the way that only groups have. To Rose, it sounded like the laughter was coming in waves; one of them would stop, regain control of themselves, and then lose composure again five seconds later. The tears were streaming down Rose's cheeks when she could finally stop laughing, and Al was wheezing, red-faced, from the chair next to her.

"All right, all right," Aunt Ginny said, getting to her feet, "We really must send you lot back to bed." Reluctant though she was to end this night, Rose felt weariness spreading within her, sure as sunlight and the tides and all of those other things that are always certain, like death and taxes. She rose and followed her family out of the Room of Requirement. Now that she wasn't blindfolded, she made sure to pay close attention to the route back to the portrait hole; this room was most definitely someplace she wanted to be able to find again. She was just grateful that it had managed to heal itself, so to speak, after being destroyed by FiendFyre during the Battle of Hogwarts. Grateful, but not entirely surprised; having read _Hogwarts, a History, _she understood that the halls of the castle bore many ancient enchantments, and that the magic's influence over the school was considerable. She could almost feel the dormant magic like a hum from the walls as they walked.

The halls were dark and the little group silent as they made their way back to Gryffindor tower. They might have special permission to be out of bed, but Aunt Ginny had warned them that it would hardly matter to the now-practically-ancient Argus Filch. She had snorted, and observed in a dry tone that, even with Voldemort's forces actively massed to attack the school, Filch's biggest concern had been that students were out of bed after hours. A man like that would probably try to give Rose's parents detention for wandering the corridors after hours, let alone Rose and Al. _I'd like to see him try_, Rose thought to herself as they finally reached Gryffindor Tower. Luck was on their side this night, or maybe her parents had just planned everything particularly carefully; the Fat Lady was awake in her portrait frame, and she eyed them with arched eyebrows as they drew near.

"Up to no good again, Mr. Potter," she observed sweetly.

"As ever," Uncle Harry replied with a smile. "Your new frame is lovely."

"So kind of you to notice!"

"I try," he said, and Rose's mother leaned over to her.

"I pointed it out to him," she whispered. "We always have to flatter her to get her to let us in."

"Would you mind terribly letting us in?" Uncle Harry asked beseechingly.

"Well, only since you asked so politely," said the Fat Lady, and the portrait swung open. "Lovely to see you as well, Mrs. Potter, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," she called after them as they all climbed into the Common Room. The room looked cozy, as ever. The chairs ranged around the fire were dangerously appealing to the very sleepy set of first-years awake long beyond their usual time. Al began to drift towards one, zombie-like, before his mother caught him and redirected his course towards the stairs.

"Well," said Aunt Ginny, "It's off to bed with the two of you. Be sure to go straight to sleep; I don't want to hear anything from your professors about you nodding off in class on your first day!" Al was had already reached the steps to his dormitory. Aunt Ginny shooed Rose towards her own winding stairs, but Rose had one more thing to say.

"Wait," she began, and saw Al turn around to face her, "I have a question. Some families have a secret china cabinet, others have a secret Squib somewhere in their lineage, and Aunt Luna's family is secretly a lot more sane than they let on. The story you just told us, is that –"

"A _family _secret, Rose." Hermione answered before Rose could even finish her query; only her mother found her so predictable. "Of course, it's hard to call it a secret when so many people know it, but yes. Anyone older than you with the last name of Lupin, Potter, or Weasley knows everything we just told you."

"Aside from Aunt Muriel," Aunt Ginny added.

"Is she even still alive?" Ron asked.

"No, Ron, she died four years ago," his wife reminded him.

"But don't tell her that to her face," Ginny warned. "Her ghost would probably kill you."

"We have," Al said exhaustedly, "what has got to be the most incredibly awesome and potentially insane family _ever_. We should get a medal or something."

"Would you like one of my Order of Merlin, First Class awards, Al? I've got about seven," Harry offered.

"Eight," Ron corrected.

"Eight," Harry agreed amiably. "My offer still stands."

"Aren't those the great metal things you use as paperweights in your office?" Al asked, and Rose's father sniggered. Uncle Harry flushed and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

"It was either that, or use them as Christmas ornaments, and your mother said they'd bring down the tree!"

_** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh _** bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_**_**_**_

It really was time for bed, Rose knew. She climbed into her four-poster bed, curled up, and tried to find sleep again. She was just beginning to sink into that halfway-to-dreaming place where reality becomes as murky and malleable as a London puddle when she realized that she could still hear the low murmur of voices from the Gryffindor Common Room. The adults must not have left yet. She wondered briefly what they might be talking about before pushing those thoughts out of her head. This was the time for sleep, not for her boundless curiosity. But it was too late. Fighting with her innate inquisitiveness was patently futile; once it caught hold of her imagination, it worried her mind like a puppy with an annoying chew toy. Rose gave in without much of a fight, though, climbing quietly out of her bed and walking as swiftly as she dared towards the door. She must be silent, silent, if she wanted to fool her parents. Curiosity killed the cat, they said, but only because the cat got caught. Rose Weasley would not.

She crept down the stairs, soundless as only a seasoned prankster can be. She was almost to the bottom of the staircase before the low mutter of conversation resolved itself into words.

" . . . swore, no secrets from the kids. I don't understand why we can't –" her father was saying when her mother cut him off.

"Because we can't Ron. I love our children, and trust them immensely, but even _you_ went prowling through Harry' stuff that one time looking for the wand. If he hadn't had the sense to put it someplace safer than his trunk, Merlin knows where we'd be."

"The temptation is difficult to deal with for a full-grown wizard," Aunt Ginny's voice agreed, "let alone an eleven-year-old."

"I don't like it either, Ron," said Harry. "Merlin knows Dumbledore kept enough secrets for me to be well sick of them. But I agree with Hermione in this case. Al and Rose do not need to know where the Hallows are. Nor do any of our other children."

"But if something happens to us -?"

"We will send them on a merry goose chase, just as Dumbledore did us," Harry replied firmly. "The contingencies are in place. You helped set them up yourself."

"We have this argument almost every year, Ron," Rose's mother's voice said gently.

"Fine, fine," Ron grumbled. "I know."

Rose crept down another stair, but even her careful step and almost negligible weight did not keep a most unwelcome _crreeeeeaaaak_ from sounding. Her head snapped up. From here, she could see where her parents and her aunt and uncle were sprawling on the chairs around the flickering fireplace. The dying flames threw sharp shadows onto their faces like ink spilled from some great well, but she swore she could see her father looking at her. His was the only chair that faced her staircase. She froze, certain she was caught.

"What was that?" Aunt Ginny asked sharply. "Ron, can you see - ?"

"There's nothing there, Gin. The castle's just being creaky," Rose's father replied, but though Rose could see only a hollow darkness where his eyes were, she was certain all the same that he was watching her. She watched his watching, hardly daring to move. She would be in _so much trouble_ if the other adults knew she was there. Was her father covering for her? Rose was about to scamper as quietly as a Weasley could back up to her dormitory when her father spoke again. His words were slow and deliberate, enunciated in a very uncharacteristic manner. The shadows on his face made him look far more serious than was his wont. "But what about the letters? Shouldn't we have told them about the letters?"

"Dear," said Hermione, lazily exasperated, "We talked about this as well. There's no need for them to know. Not now."

"I think my child would want to know as soon as possible about a letter threatening her well-being," Ron shot back, still enunciating his words carefully. "I know I would."

"Ron," Uncle Harry's voice was quiet, little more than a whisper, but he spoke heavily as he continued. "We're working on it. I'm losing sleep over it, and I know you are too, but we don't know where those letters came from. We don't even know if they were meant to be threatening. They might just be . . . very odd. There's no reason to worry Al and Rose with it. Not just yet, anyway."

"Plus, they're safe here at Hogwarts, and they're safe at home," Aunt Ginny said fiercely. "Between the four of us, we could inflict some serious damage on whatever sod-brained idiot might try to hurt our children. We'll tell them, Ron, but only if there's a serious threat that we can't manage."

"Let's let them be children, dear. Remember when you first started Hogwarts?"

"I remember that someone actually _was_ after us when we started Hogwarts," Rose's father said stubbornly.

"Voldemort's dead, Ron," Harry said shortly. "Voldemort's dead, and the world is a better place than it was when we started at Hogwarts. You and I both know that our children are in no danger. Let's not fill their heads with more ghosts than we need to," he finished wearily.

Rose had heard enough. She crept quietly up the stairs again and sank into her bed, anxious now to stay awake and think through everything she had just heard. But sleep always claims those who least desire it; Rose Weasley was dreaming within five minutes.

**_Author's Note:_**

_Look! It's more words! And . . . plot? Say WHAT. _

_As always, thanks ever so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. To preempt any questions: yes, you're right, the actual holiday is called the Feast of the Assumption, and there is a completely separate holiday called the Annunciation. I liked the names, and the Catholic Church didn't copyright them, so I took them :) Anywho, a giant thanks to those who have put me on alert or added this story to their favorites - I'm glad people are enjoying it so far! And probably the biggest thanks ever to those who are reviewing, especially to those who have consistently been reviewing as I go along (you know who you are, and I lovelovelove you!). I truly appreciate any and all feedback, and I will **definitely **be using it (case in point: I knew Scorpius would be in Gryffindor from the start of the fic, but i completely forgot to consider how Draco would react. Um, spacecase much? So, yeah, thanks for pointing that out . . .)  
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_In this chapter specifically, I'd love to have feedback on the relationships between Al and Rose and their parents. I've tried to portray it as 'realistically' as possible (for lack of a better word), but this is the first time I've ever seriously incorporated any of Rowling's well-developed __protagonists into one of my stories without the guidance of the epilogue. I'd be curious to see what you think. As for the Feast of the Annunciation, well, I've never really seen that done in another fic. I came up with it because I kept asking, much like Rose, why Harry and Co. would not have told their children about their whole wonderful saga - based, of course, on my interpretation of the epilogue. This was the answer I came up with**. **Also it was fun to write._

_**Edit: **some clarification points have been added since posting. _

_**Edit #2: **There has been a question about my canon compliance regarding the Deathly Hallows. In order to not spoil the story, I'll just say this: I am canon-compliant with the books always (and if I'm not, please point it out!), and sometimes, incidentally, the movies (when they don't contradict the books). In the books (for a quick refresher), the Elder Wand is reburied with Dumbledore, the Resurrection Stone is dropped somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, and the Invisibility Cloak remains with Harry. In my story, all of those things happened. However, Rose and Al don't necessarily **know** that those things happened because of the decisions their parents made. And that's all I'm sayin' for now. If you would like a more in-depth explanation, I will be happy to PM it to you upon request. Also, this point will possibly be addressed later in the story :)**  
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_Thanks again for reading, and hasta la vista, baby. I'LL BE BACK (cue Terminator music).  
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	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5: Back to Basics**

_**Disclaimer:**__ I write Harry Potter fanfic, but bear with me for a moment while I reference Star Wars. I've heard it said that Duct Tape is like the Force: it has a Light side, a Dark side, and it holds the Universe together. As far as I'm concerned, that may or may not be true. I certainly went through a phase where many of my belongings, including much of my furniture and several pairs of shoes, were held together by duct tape. However, I can make no universal pronouncements on the veracity or the falseness of that statement. I can, however, use it for an extended metaphor. The Force (or duct tape, as you might have it) is the wonderful world of the written word. Of fiction. The Light side, for me, is creativity. Coming up with my own ideas, thinking new thoughts and mapping out plots and all of that fictiony goodness. On the Dark side is plagiarism. Stealing someone else's ideas and calling them your own, staking claim to something that is not yours. Using this as the basis for my metaphor, I prefer to think of myself as a Jedi of fanfiction. I do not mess with the Dark side. Thus, in the interest of __**not**__ following the same path as Anakin Skywalker-turned-Darth Vader, I must avoid plagiarism. And so I must inform you that I do not own any of the Harry Potter universe, the characters, or the plot points of the original seven novels that I reference. Those belong to J.K. Rowling, a Master Jedi of the fictional world whose work with the Light side of the Force inspires us all, myself included. I am merely playing with her belongings, and I thank her sincerely for allowing me to do so. However, there are other parts of this story (like, the actual story part) that do belong to me. As a Jedi warrior sworn to the Light side of the Force, I will have to come after you with a lightsaber if you use my stuff for Dark purposes. Mine's purple. Beware. Thank you, and enjoy!_

Rose's sense of déjà-vu kicked in the instant she started awake. She knew that she had once again been awakened by some unexpected sound; she also knew that it was not nighttime anymore, which she surmised intelligently by noticing the presence of sunlight in the room. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. The feeling of déjà-vu intensified as someone once again wrenched back her curtains – how long would they last if they were to be mistreated every day in this manner?

This time, though, she could see the face that loomed over her.

"Oh, brilliant!" trilled Annabelle Orion, "You're already awake!"

"Lucky me," Rose mumbled, not fully conscious yet, "What time is it?"

"It's breakfast time, silly! Almost seven o'clock!"

"You woke me _two hours_ before classes start?" Annabelle nodded vigorously, and her ash-blonde ringlets bounced around a heart-shaped face. Rose nodded as well.

"Right. Wake me again when the sun's fully risen," she said, grabbing her covers and placing them firmly over her head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said another voice, lower pitched than Annabelle's titter. "Willow tried as well, and got a cup of water to the face for it."

"My bed's still wet," a third voice said morosely. "And so am I."

"I don't know any drying charms," Annabelle admitted sheepishly. "But I apologized!"

"Will your apology make me dry quicker?" asked the morose girl, apparently Willow. Annabelle ignored her, sitting on the edge of Rose's bed instead.

"Hi!" she said brightly. "I'm Annabelle Orion. I didn't get to meet you last night. I'm a Wotton-under-Edge-ian. Or –ite. We can't really agree on what we're called." She stuck out her hand. Rose groaned and sat up.

"Rose Weasley," she said, grasping Annabelle's hand and shaking it briefly. "I'm a very exhausted eleven-year-old."

"That's not a town," said Annabelle, wrinkling her nose.

"And you're not the kind of person who's going to let me go back to bed, are you?"

"Not on your life," was Annabelle's cheerful reply. Rose groaned again and swung her feet out of her bed. The other two girls who were already awake sat cross-legged on one bed, presumably because the other was still inconveniently wet. Rose waved half-heartedly at them, her limbs still heavy with the remnants of her altogether-to-brief sleep.

"Hi," said one of the girls, "I'm Katie McEwan. Well, Kathleen, but everyone calls me Katie." Katie was tiny and adorably plump, with a round, open face, a spattering of freckles across her nose, and a permanent semi-smile. She had long, shiny brown hair that she had pushed back from her face with a thick headband.

"I'm Willow Sparra," said the other girl, still sounding depressed. "No one really calls me, but if they did, they'd call me Willow." She could not have been more different from Katie: tall, almost bone-thin, and vampirically pale, she had plaited her black hair down her back, where it brushed the bed. She had a slightly aquiline nose and very light green eyes set close together in a long face. Her eyes currently looked like they were trying to drill a hole through Rose's forehead.

"Rose Weasley," Rose repeated, yawning.

"You're famous, you know," said Annabelle brightly.

"No she's not," Willow corrected. "Her parents are."

"I don't know about any of it," Katie chimed in. "I'm Muggle-born."

"We'll fill you in over breakfast," Annabelle assured her. "Shall we head down?" she asked the group at large. Rose had had a little bit of time to get her bearings by then, and she noticed that there were five beds in the little room. The curtains remained drawn around the fifth bed, and the sound of deep breathing could be heard even through the heavy curtains.

"Why didn't you wake her?" she asked, indicating the last bed.

"It wasn't for lack of trying," Willow said glumly.

"We couldn't," Annabelle explained. "I think there's a Shield Charm around her bed or something. Her older sister probably set it. Her name's Melisenda Wilkes; our parents are friends, so I've known her forever."

"We would have loved to invite her to breakfast," Katie added. "I hope she doesn't think we purposefully ignored her."

"I'm sure she'll understand, seeing as how she made it physically impossible for you to reach her," Rose said drily.

"I don't think she would have come anyway," said Annabelle, and left it at that.

When the little group made it down to the Great Hall at the oh-so-late hour of seven in the morning, they found the enormous room almost entirely empty. Rose felt especially small under the scrutiny of some overzealous prefects – the only other students mad enough to be awake at this hour - as she made her way to the Gryffindor table. Despite the early hour, the table was already laden with an assortment of every breakfast food imaginable. There were more varieties of scone on this table than Rose had ever seen before in her life, and that was saying something. Even Grandma Weasley didn't usually make this much food during the holidays. But none of it appealed to Rose, who had begun to muse over her experiences from the night before. Her roommates left her to her thoughts, apparently under the not-so-far-wrong assumption that she wasn't a morning person and needed to be left alone.

Her thoughts went around and around, chasing each other in endless circles. Her food lay untouched and congealing on her plate, her tea sat endlessly steeping in the mug she held for warmth. She relived, she analyzed, she contemplated reflectively. And reflected contemplatively. There was no question in her mind that her father had brought up the letters on purpose; he had always been fiercely protective of his children and his extended family. He was clearly trying to warn her. But what did Uncle Harry mean when he said they were "working on it"? What could there be to work on? Was there any hint as to who had sent these mysterious letters? And were they threatening . . . or merely "odd"? What constituted an "odd" letter anyway? And . . .

"Rose? 'Ello, Rose?" Victoire's voice snapped her out of her reverie. Of course her oldest cousin would be one of the few eager students awake at this hour; Victoire was a perfectionist, a seventh-year Ravenclaw, and Head Girl to boot. And while Rose probably looked as though her hair had been attacked by a savage and statically charged balloon, Victoire looked as flawless as ever, all long blonde hair and big blue eyes. Rose's first instinct was to hide behind her uneaten scrambled eggs, but that was just a knee-jerk reflex left over from some rather traumatizing childhood experiences. Unfortunately, the older girl had passed her most interesting phase while Rose was still in diapers. Now she was much too straight-edged to be any fun. Rose hardly understood what Teddy saw in her, aside from the whole super-attractive-half-French-part-Veela thing.

"Morning, Victoire," Rose sighed.

"_Bonjour. _I 'ope you 'ad a wonderful first night 'ere?" For someone who was born and bred in Cornwall, she had an awfully thick French lilt to her speech. Rose often thought that she and her sister must purposefully emphasize their accents; their brother Louis had merely a trace, and even Aunt Fleur's had subsided noticeably over the years.

"Yeah, thanks, it was great."

"And the . . . the Feast? You are not too tired, _non_?" Victoire asked, and Rose knew she wasn't referring to the Sorting Feast.

"It was pretty cool," Rose said, her eyes meeting Victoire's for the first time. They shared a smile. "And I'm exhausted, actually, but I'll make it."

"_Tres bon_. And . . . about yezterday. On ze train. I am . . . sorry if I was a leetle bit . . . upset. I was not angry with you or Albus."

"It's ok. James is a total prat. You have my sympathies."

"_Oui_, a total prat, as you say. 'e 'ad no right, no –" Victoire broke off, her cheeks going a delicate pink, which Rose had learned was the same as when her father's ears went purple: a statement of great emotion, usually anger, and a warning sign. Her older cousin took a couple of deep breaths and tossed her long hair over one shoulder. "We were going to tell everyone," she continued. "When we were ready. I am sorry zat everyone 'ad to find out zis way instead." She practically bit off the last sentence.

"No one was upset or anything, you know, right?" Rose asked. Victoire seemed genuinely angsted over this.

"I know," said Victoire softly. "But zis year is going to be _tres difficile _for your cousin James, if I 'ave anything to say about eet," she continued, sculpted eyebrows rising menacingly. Rose almost quailed: Victoire was terrifying when she was angry, perhaps more so because she was so very pretty. Without another word, the blond girl turned and stomped gracefully off. The moment of kinship between the two Weasleys was broken. Rose turned back to her scrambled eggs.

"Was that your cousin?" Katie asked, eyes wide.

"One of the multitude."

"What was _that _all about, anyway?" Annabelle chimed in, voice chipped as usual.

"Family stuff," Rose said, rolling her eyes. She got sympathetic grins from Annabelle and Katie, and a sympathetic frown from Willow.

"Your family's absolutely mad," Willow observed morosely. "Everyone knows that." Rose just nodded and gulped down some tea for the excuse not to join in the conversation.

"_I _don't," said Katie cheerfully.

"Oooh! I'll explain!" Annabelle chirped. Rose didn't bother protesting.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

By the time Al actually deigned to get himself out of bed, Rose had already been up for a full hour and a half. She had returned to the Common Room after breakfast and slumped directly into one of the chairs by the fire. She watched most of the other first-year Gryffindor boys leave for breakfast in various states of disarray and drowsy-eyed confusion, had her hair pulled by Louis on his way down, and her robes flipped up over her head by Fred as she lay half-drowsing on the chair. Fred had also offered to slip her some Pepperup potion for the morning; he seemed to sympathize with her plight, but she didn't quite trust the whistling, violently orange vial he had to offer. He had probably brewed it himself, to match the color of his hair . . . and added some extra ingredients.

Yes, the sun had risen, the hypothetical rooster had crowed, and most of Hogwarts was fully awake when Al stumbled down the stairs, his mouth so stretched in a yawn Rose thought his jaw might come off. His eyes looked especially green today: the way they were bloodshot made them stand out.

"Wannafoodwithme?"

"I'd love to get a second breakfast with you, Al," Rose replied, rolling her eyes. She knew she would get no sense out of him until he had at least a rasher of bacon.

The Great Hall felt much more alive and much less forbidding when she wasn't being stared down by prefects, or stomped at by an angry half-French cousin. Rose poured herself another cup of tea and watched in simultaneous amusement and disgust as Al loaded his plate beyond all reasonable expectation of consumption. She was thinking again, pondering how she should tell Al about the letters, and probably all the other Weasleys as well, when she was interrupted by a remarkably crumb-speckled Al and a cheery voice.

"Wasn't last night _amazing?_" he asked, sitting back from his half-empty plate with a satisfied smile.

"Yes. It was wonderful."

"No, I mean, it was _so cool._"

"Yes, Al. I've still got awesomeness oozing from my pores. It was fun."

"What's got your kneazle this morning?" Al asked, suddenly catching onto the fact that Rose might not have been in the best of moods. Rose explained patiently that she had been awake since before seven o'clock this morning, due to the ingenuity and over-enthusiasm of one of her roommates.

"Oh, you've met your roommates, then? What are they like?"

"I've got the Good, the Sad, and the Perky. Haven't met the fourth one yet, but she's smarter than me: she had someone set a shield charm around her bed last night so no one could get in to wake her up at the crack of dawn. What are your roommates like?"

"Well, the most devilishly attractive is named Albus Potter," Al began, and Rose finally chuckled slightly, poking him.

"No, seriously!"

"I've only met Scorpius so far. The others were asleep by the time I got back to the dormitory last night, and gone when I got up this morning."

"Oh." Rose paused, about to turn the conversation towards her accidentally-on-purpose eavesdropping session the previous night.

"Hey Rose," Al said suddenly, looking around, "Out of curiosity, when do classes start?" Rose checked the time.

"We have History of Magic in two minutes," she replied casually. She and Al looked at each other momentarily, looked around to notice that the Great Hall was conspicuously empty, and had a very similar reaction. Two seconds later, all that remained in the Great Hall to mark their presence was a half-eaten slice of toast with jam and egg, a half-empty mug, and the echo of their eerily identical shouts of dismay.

As they sprinted along the corridor, hoping only that they would manage to find the classroom on their first try, they attracted stares from many students conscientiously lined up outside of their classrooms.

"I can't believe," Rose panted as they ran, "that I'm going to be late to my first-ever class at Hogwarts because of you."

"The pleasure," Al gasped, "is all mine." They turned a corner and nearly smacked into a wall that appeared directly and rather suddenly in front of them.

"Not this way, then," said Rose, and the cousins turned to sprint down another corridor. By the time they reached the History of Magic classroom, they were more than a little bedraggled. Rose had hitched her robes up around her knees to make for easier running, and now they looked as though she had put them through a weak but determined woodcutter. Al's hair was sticking up, not that that was unusual, and his ink had spilt somewhere along the way. His hands were covered in the black liquid – as were his books. They were both audibly wheezing as they opened the door to creep into the classroom. Their attempts at silence certainly didn't win them any points with the professor.

"Please take your seats, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter," said Professor Binns in a curt, reedy rasp, "You're late." The other first-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs looked up, many with a gleam of latent awe in their eyes. Weasleys (well, descendents-of-Grangers) and Potters were apparently still the resident celebrities around here, despite the fact that there were far too many of them to really be a novelty anymore. Katie McEwan waved cheerily at Rose, and Willow Sparra raised her eyebrows. Scorpius Malfoy, sitting in the far corner, blatantly looked the opposite direction as she and Al took their seats.

"He knows your names," Annabelle Orion hissed as Rose sat down in front of her. "I'm impressed!"

"He knows our parents' names, more like," Rose whispered, turning slightly. "Too bad he's more than two decades' worth of wrong."

"Professor Binns," quipped Al quietly, "still teaching, still oblivious, still dead." Rose thought the professor might have heard at least part of that, because he gave them an unusually sharp look. Rose tried to look saintly as she dug parchment out of her bag and settled in for what was sure to be a long and boring lecture. She was doodling almost as morosely as Willow within about two minutes. Some of her mother's supernatural study abilities had not manifested themselves in Rose, apparently.

Neither had Hermione's timeliness. Rose and Al were late to Charms as well, despite the fact that they merely had to follow the rest of their classmates down the corridor. They were waylaid by Peeves the Poltergeist, who took it upon himself to pelt them with eyes of newt that he had apparently stolen from the Potions stockroom. They were also late to lunch following an encounter with Molly, who had heard somehow that they were causing trouble, and took it upon herself to lecture the both of them. Her voice seemed to go on for hours; Rose's stomach growled unhappily. When they finally made it to the Great Hall, Al insisted that they find Scorpius. They hadn't really talked to him at all since before the Sorting; he'd been sitting on the opposite side of the room from them in both of their classes so far. And he'd moved shockingly quickly toward the door at the end of both periods, robes swishing efficiently behind them as he all but ran to his next destination. But, come lunch hour, the quiet boy was suddenly and inexplicably missing from the happily chattering group of first-year Gryffindor students. If Rose had been slightly less distracted by the hilarious and clearly well-developed enmity between Annabelle Orion and Melisenda Wilkes, who had finally turned up, she might have paused to wonder where Scorpius could possibly have gone.

He did turn up in their next class – one miserable session of Potions with the Slytherins, to which Rose and Al had also been late – but she forgot to ask him where he'd been hiding his ostentatiously blond self. And then she was finally, blissfully done for the day, and concerns about Scorpius could not have been further from her mind. She was far more preoccupied with the mountains of homework her professors had already managed to assign, of course. Rose trekked grimly to Gryffindor Tower with Al (Scorpius having practically sprinted ahead yet again), complaining about their already sizeable workload.

"I'm finishing it all tonight," Rose said.

"You'd have more luck moving the castle to the States, brick by brick," Al replied dolorously.

"Just you wait, Al. You'll see. I've got my mother's brains, after all."

"Why is it that you're allowed to say that, but I'm not?"

"Because if you say it, I'll learn a Caterwauling Charm and follow you around for the rest of your life," Rose replied lightly.

"I see your point," Al conceded as they entered the tower.

Rose remembered to do every scrap of homework she possibly could that night before resigning herself to bed. She did eventually remember to look for Scorpius, who was missing again, and she remembered to ask an older Gryffindor girl, a fifth-year named Kimberly Ashfield, to cast some sort of protective charm around her bed so that she could avoid waking up before dawn again. What she didn't remember was to tell Al about what she had overheard from their parents.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

She also didn't remember the following day. Or the next. Or even the next. Both Rose and Al were so intent on figuring out their class schedules, their new housemates, the route to every class, and most importantly, the way to the loo, that little else seemed to matter that week. Despite their rather rocky beginning, they did eventually manage to find some of their classes without issue. This was probably more due to the fact that they were able to travel with the rest of the first-year Gryffindors than to any improvement in their respective senses of direction. By the end of the first week of classes, they were consistently arriving _almost _on time and _almost _without help to all of their classes. Knowing their way around the castle was only a skirmish in the war that is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, though. There was much more for them to learn and discover.

Rose and Al had, perhaps, a slightly easier time than most, given their magical upbringing and their parents' own close ties to Hogwarts. Professor Binns was only one of the professors who still remembered when Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley had walked the halls (well, more often ran the halls, truth be told). Headmistress Sprout would give them a cheery wave if she passed them in the corridors, and even the old caretaker Argus Filch seemed to reserve a special sneer for the Rose and Al. Professor Sinistra had given the duo an extra once-over when they turned up to their first Astronomy class at midnight on Thursday, then placed them at telescopes far away from one another. And, true to form, Professor Flitwick had nearly cried with happiness upon reading their names on the roll. Rose discovered that a lot of Hogwarts students found it difficult to take Professor Flitwick and his subject entirely seriously, given his propensity towards squeakiness and his less-than-intimidating nature – or rather, stature. From her parents' stories, though, Rose knew better. He might be smaller than most of his students, but he was a formidable magical force. And while a Cheering Charm might not save her neck in a tight spot, Rose remembered that a simple Hovering Charm had once defeated a full-grown mountain troll. She vowed to pay close attention in his class, and tried very hard not to laugh when Professor Flitwick toppled off his pile of books.

And yet there were a great many professors who did not remember Rose's parents. Or rather, many professors who knew them solely by their reputation as war heroes and best friends to the Boy-Who-Lived-(Again). Rose felt more pressure in their classes; the professors who had actually taught her parents knew them as children, knew the flaws and the failures that went hand in hand with the triumphs. The newer professors saw her last name and expected greatness where Rose felt merely insecurity and worry. There were many newer professors, and much insecurity, to contend with.

Professor Slughorn had retired as Potions-master after accidentally falling asleep in class and turning himself into an armchair in front of a room of rowdy first-years armed with too many potions ingredients and too little sense. Professor Wistorren had taken his place back in Teddy Lupin's first year of school. The best thing that could be said of Wistorren was that he knew and loved his subject. He was enamored of it; it was his fascination, his _raison d'etre_, his life's passion. Rose only wished she could say the same of his teaching: his students were another matter entirely. It wasn't that he disliked them in particular - he simply seemed to forget sometimes that they existed.

The wispy, bespectacled Professor clearly made an effort to plan his Potions lessons in advance. The students arrived in class every day to find the topic they would be covering that day written on the board in the professor's scrawling hand. The lecture would begin promisingly, as Wistorren would declaim in his thin voice on the composition and many uses of different potions' ingredients, or why one particular component of a simple Sleeping Draught was so particularly important. That would last for about ten minutes. Soon, the lecture would devolve into Wistorren's musings and hypotheses, his own stories about that time he brewed the best Polyjuice Potion his examiner had ever seen, his thoughts on the utility of peppermint. He spent a good deal of time fiddling with the tatty scarves he inevitably wore. He commanded attention simply by virtue of the fact that the students could never tell if what he was saying happened to be of importance. Rose, of course, wrote everything down, while Al played tic-tac-toe with Dax Destrier on his parchment, and Willow worried quietly that they would all accidentally kill themselves the first time Wistorren actually allowed them to brew something.

Their Transfiguration professor could not have been more different. Lean in the way of Aurors or Quidditch players, tall in a way that would have been impressive had not Hagrid inhabited the same school, and in possession of a long, prematurely lined face, Caligula Callister was, much like his predecessor, not to be fooled with.

"I am Caligula Callister," he began quietly on their first day, sweeping into the room and up the aisle in the center. There were snickers from the few students who knew their Roman emperors. Rose, of course, knew why the name was funny, but tried respectfully to turn her laugh into a cough. "Yes, the name is funny. No, my parents were not very fond of me. This is the first time you will hear me talk about it; this is also the last time I will address the subject." Now the room was silent. Grins slid off faces like toast off an overturned plate. "Let's begin. Transfiguration is one of the most difficult subjects taught at Hogwarts. What I teach in here could change the world one day. It could provide you with a job –if you've got the talent – or even save your life. It can also kill you. I expect you to give the subject the respect it deserves, and I expect you to respect me, or at least fear me enough to listen. Put away your wands –" There was a muffled groan from Dax, who was Muggleborn, and had been told to put away his wand in every class they had attended thus far. "I promise you will be sick of using it in this class before the year is through, Mr. . . . ?"

"Destrier, sir. Daxter Destrier," the stocky boy whispered, quailing.

"Thank you for your enthusiasm for my subject, Mr. Destrier. Now, the most important principle . . ." Professor Callister had indeed commanded the respect of all his students from the first, Rose thought, looking around. Every first year had taken out their parchment and quills, and the majority of them were feverishly scrawling in an effort to capture every word the professor uttered. He was a force to be reckoned with, she thought then. And he was the Head of Slytherin House.

It was only fitting that the Head of Gryffindor House be equally impressive. As a rather famous war hero, Neville Longbottom fit the bill quite well. He smiled more often than Professor Callister, though, and his interesting lessons and genial manner earned him both respect and a genuine good regard from the vast majority of the Hogwarts population. Even the first years, who were only allowed in the excruciatingly safe Greenhouse One, found their Herbology class to be engaging and, Merlin help them, _fun_.

"I really like your class, Uncle N - Professor," Al blurted as they were leaving the greenhouse one day.

"Thanks, Al. That's good to hear. You sound awfully surprised about it, though," the professor replied with a smile.

"Well, normally Rosie's the one who likes learning and classes and things." Rose rolled her eyes next to Al, and Uncle Neville's smile grew wider.

"And Rose doesn't like this class, but you do?"

"Of course I like your class!" said Rose defensively. "I think Al is just surprised that he likes _any _class at all!"

"Truer words never spoken," Al said. "I'm beginning to feel like Rose has rubbed off on me. Or maybe I've spent too much time around Aunt Hermione . . ." They all laughed, and Rose caught Scorpius glancing at them. Uncle Neville, or Professor Longbottom, or whatever they were supposed to call him, ruffled Al's hair and Rose's, and sent them on their way to lunch. When they got there, Scorpius was – yet again - nowhere to be found.

Rose didn't know quite what to make of this generation's edition of Malfoy. True to the pattern he had established on their first day of school, Scorpius unfailingly showed up on time and prepared to every single class. He seemed to be the only one of the first-year Gryffindors who had no issue finding his way around Hogwarts, even with the ever-changing passages and inconstant stairways. But he also continued to maintain his distance from the rest of his peers. Perhaps Rose was being a bit paranoid, but she thought that he seemed to be avoiding her in particular, and could not imagine why. She felt a bit, well . . . snubbed, much as she hated to admit it. Even when she tried to sit next to him during Defense Against the Dark Arts, or hurried to walk with him after class, she always found herself seated on the precisely opposite side of the room from his desk, or chasing the wrong set of black robes down the corridor. Truth be told, they hadn't exchanged a single word since their ride on the lake before the Sorting Ceremony. In fact, she hadn't seen him talk to any of his fellow Gryffindors. She even overheard Connor and Dax talking about it one day, postulating that the poor boy might have had his tongue removed by his father for the mortal sin of being Sorted into Gryffindor. For all Rose knew, that might be true. Scorpius did seem awfully quiet. And pale. Of course, that could have just been his natural complexion – but did he normally have those dark circles under his eyes? Did his hands normally shake when he held a quill? Did he normally skip all of his meals? Because he was certainly doing all of those things now.

Rose told herself that it was not her responsibility to watch over Draco-Malfoy-in-miniature, not her job to take care of the ferret's offspring. Al seemed worried, though. He kept trying to corner Scorpius to ask him what was wrong, but the boy was as slippery as he was pale. Rose and Al could never seem to find him outside of class. Rose was all for giving up, but Al seemed to feel some sort of debt to Scorpius for telling them the truth of their parents. Rose supposed he was right; did that mean she was Scorpius's keeper? No, it did not. She would concentrate on classes, thank you very much.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

Even with Uncle Neville teaching Herbology, Rose thought Defense Against the Dark Arts would be her favorite class. She had never heard of Professor Hestia Jones, and the wiry woman with ruffled salt-and-pepper hair and permanently pink cheeks did not look familiar. But the professor had heard of her. Or at least her family. Shocking.

"I'm Professor Jones," she began as they walked in to their first session on Friday. "I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I'm not going to really bother explaining why my subject is an important one for you to learn. If you haven't figured it out by now, talk to Rose Weasley or Albus Potter. They're sitting in that corner, and I'm sure they would be happy to enlighten you." She winked at Al and Rose, who were sitting rather nonplussed in their chairs. When no one else reacted either, Professor Jones looked confused. "That was supposed to be a bit funny, you know," she said. "Normally people laugh when things are funny." She paused again. "You all look rather tired today, you know."

"Please, Professor," began Katie McEwan, raising her hand politely. "We all had our first Astronomy lesson last night. We _are _rather tired."

"Poor timing, isn't it," muttered Professor Jones. She spread her hands towards the class and shrugged. "Well, I understand. All right, there'll be no wandwork or legwork today," she announced. "I'll talk about myself instead, so you can get an idea of how this class is going to be. But next week, I expect you to be ready for work. _Real_ work. Deal?" The class nodded.

"What do you mean by _real_ work?" asked Connor McLaggen skeptically.

"You'll figure it out soon enough, Mr. McLaggen. Now, you might be wondering where Professor Jones comes from," she said. "Or you might not, but I'm going to explain it to you anyway, because it doesn't look like you'll be up for what I'd actually planned today. I don't expect you to take notes on this; I will not be testing you on my personal history." There was a collective sigh from the class as students happily obliged Professor Jones, putting away their quills and parchment with many an elated flourish.

"I was a member of the Order of the Phoenix during the Second Wizarding War," continued the professor. _Ahah, _Rose thought, _that clears things up._ "I planned operations, carried out important missions, and fought in more than a few skirmishes and battles. I fought my last battle in this very school, right down the hall from where we are now. I have a lot of experience with what you might call practical Defense. What I saw in the war," here her voice dropped as suddenly as her grin. "What I saw in the war I would not wish on any of you. But what I will teach you here is what I learned during that war. Yes, you will learn spellwork. Yes, you will learn about how to identify works of Dark Magic, or Dark Creatures. But you will also learn the physical side of fighting – your reflexes are just as important to you as your wand in a battle or a fight." Professor Jones paused and raised her eyebrows at the class. "You might want to bring an extra set of clothing to these lessons. Robes are great for school lessons, but not so much for training."

"Defense is going to be _so awesome_," Connor said as they left the classroom. Dax nodded heartily in agreement; then again, he nodded heartily in agreement to almost everything Connor said.

"I don't know," said Katie, wrinkling her nose, "I always kind of hated gym class."

"I always kind of hated sweating," said Willow with a frown.

"I think it'll be great," said Al enthusiastically.

"It'll be cool to have a professor with actual Defense experience," Rose agreed. "Imagine the things she could teach us that a normal professor wouldn't know!"

"Couldn't you just learn that stuff from your parents?" Melisenda asked snidely. Rose ignored her, as usual. Pretty much everything that came out of Melisenda's mouth was snide, and, although her rivalry with Annabelle was amusing, Rose was growing weary of having to roll her eyes every time the girl spoke.

"Actually," said Al, "We'll have to ask if our parents know Professor Jones. I'm sure they do, if she was in the Order."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Melisenda replied, shaking her dark fringe out of equally dark eyes. "Your Dad's a war hero, Potter. We get it." And she stalked off, clutching her books to her chest, headed towards the Great Hall, where she would undoubtedly whisper vicious nothings into her older sister's ears again before grudgingly joining the Gryffindor table for lunch. The rest of the first-year Gryffindors rolled their eyes as one before following her.

"See?" said Annabelle, "I told you she was awful."

"Maybe she's just feeling a bit left out," said Katie, kindly but a bit dubiously.

"Maybe she's just feeling a bit of Slytherin-wannabe-syndrome," Rose muttered, less kindly, as she watched Melisenda stalk away from them.

"She can join her sister anytime, as far as I'm concerned," said Al, shaking his head.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

It was nigh impossible to maintain any anger, though. Defense had been their last class of the week, since they had a half-day their first Friday. Rose may have been more excited about the start of classes than most of her friends, but even she could appreciate an afternoon's worth of freedom.

Not that she didn't have anything planned. She and Al were headed down to Hagrid's cabin later that afternoon – three o'clock, to be precise, as tradition demanded. This afternoon tea had been on their schedule practically since the moment they had been born. It would be the perfect close to a rather interesting week, thought Rose. It would probably be even better than the stories she had heard from her cousins, considering that Roxanne had told Hagrid very candidly what she thought of his rock cakes the year before. Rumor had it (well, Uncle Harry had told them) that Hagrid was swapping out his infamous confections for more traditional fare this year. More traditional in the sense that it would hopefully be edible.

Rose breathed deeply as she and Al strode across the grass towards Hagrid's little hut. The weather was spectacular: the sky in the Great Hall was the pristine blue of an unsullied, crisp fall day come a tad early. The grass was almost supernaturally green – come to think of it, it may have truly been supernaturally green. No matter. The sun was strong enough to warm the students lounging by the lake, but not strong enough to give Rose more freckles than she already had. And, in the anachronistic style that is characteristic only of the wizarding world, owls swooped across the sky, winging words from Hogwarts's students to their parents, tales of Sorting, and classes, and Quidditch, and . . . _Oh, Merlin. The letters!_

"Al, we have to talk later," Rose blurted suddenly. "There's something I have to tell you."

"Doesn't this sound familiar?" Al asked with a grin. "I could swear we did this just last week."

"Yes, but – whatever, Al. We're doing it again today, ok?"

"Sure, Rosie," he said, still grinning. "What do we have to talk about this time?

"Just something I overheard when – "

"When the two of you snuck out after hours with dear old Mum and Dad the first night of school?" came a voice from behind them. Rose an Al turned to find Scorpius not three feet from them. He was panting slightly; it looked as though he had been running to try to catch them up.

"Do you seriously know _everything?_" Al asked incredulously, but Rose spoke simultaneously, her voice overriding his.

"Oh, so you're through giving us the Silent Treatment?" she asked coolly. Scorpius rapidly composed himself, looking down at his shoes while he took a few deep breaths.

"I . . . I'm sorry I was avoiding you," Scorpius said, eyes downcast, repentance in his very posture. "It was unkind of me." His head snapped up suddenly, and his eyes were fierce. "But I wasn't giving you the _Silent Treatment_! That would be _childish_." Al laughed, and Scorpius looked at him, befuddled.

"How tall are you? A hundred and twenty centimeters? One-twenty-five, in shoes, maybe?" Al asked.

"About that, yeah," Scorpius replied. "Wh – "

"And you weigh what, five stone? 5 and a half, sopping wet?"

"Yes, but – "

"Well, Scorpius, you're either the world's largest and blondest house-elf, an exceptionally skinny garden gnome, or you're a child." Scorpius looked at him blankly. "It's ok to be childish," Al explained. "You're a child. That's what we're for."

"That's what _you're _for, maybe," said Scorpius peevishly, before seeming to catch himself. His eyes dropped. "But I am sorry." Rose snorted.

"Wretchedly apologizing doesn't suit you, Scorpius," she said.

"Which is why we forgive you," Al said with a smile, stepping on Rose's foot. "So long as you tell us _why_ you've been avoiding us and your meals."

"Well, not really _you_ in particular," Scorpius sighed, "More like all of Gryffindor in general, whenever possible. I was –"

"Wait, wait. Can we talk and walk at the same time?" Al asked. "Rose and I are due at Hagrid's any minute now. Want to join us for tea?"

"Tea? With that oa –" Scorpius began, but then he caught Rose's crushing glare, and his cheeks turned slightly pink. "I can't imagine anything in the world I want to do more."

"Sorry for the interruption," Al said as the reluctant trio set off. "You can keep talking now."

"Yeah," muttered Rose, "This I have to hear."

By the time the three of them were nearing Hagrid's door, though, Rose was feeling a good deal more sympathetic towards Scorpius. As he talked, she tried to picture herself in his shoes, or rather, she imagined how she would have felt if she had been Sorted into Slytherin. She tried to imagine herself writing the letter Scorpius had to write his first night here. _Dear Mom and Dad. Surprise! I'm a Slytherin!_ . . . That would have gone over with her parents about as well as Scorpius's letter went over with his. Scorpius nearly cringed when he talked about his first night in Gryffindor Tower. He had been awake most of the night, which was, of course, how he knew that Al had been missing for part of the night – apparently Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry were not so cautious as Rose's mother had been. Scorpius didn't dwell on that first night. He only said that he hadn't slept well, but Rose could sympathize enough to infer that which he neglected to say. Scorpius did mention dreading the Howler that he would surely receive on his first day; what he actually got was much worse. Silence. For five whole days, he received no word of acknowledgement, no letter of rebuke nor resignation, no package containing belongings he had forgotten – absolutely nothing. He hadn't gone down to breakfast at all that first morning out of fear for the Howler; he stopped going to meals entirely when he realized no message at all was forthcoming. Scorpius's parents weren't the only cause of his anxiety, though. He was a Malfoy, and he was in Gryffindor. Surely his peers would judge him just as much as his parents did – after all, even Rose had snubbed him on the boats after he told her about his family's background.

"I'm sorry about that, Scorpius," Rose said hurriedly, feeling a stab of remorse. "I was angry at my family. I was . . . overreacting."

"A bit, yeah," said Al, raising his eyebrows. "But it's grand of you to admit it. Now let Scorpius talk."

Scorpius had spent his days in almost total limbo: afraid both of joining his peers, and of staying away. He had, of course, been nervous that he wouldn't be accepted in his new house, and yet he was almost more terrified that he _would_. Gaining his classmates' acceptance would mean that he had resigned himself to being a Gryffindor.

"And, well, what was the use in getting attached if my parents were going to pull me out of Hogwarts anyway, and send me away to Durmstrang?"

"Would they really _do_ that?" asked Al.

"Does Filch have an unhealthy attachment to the shrine of his dead cat?" Scorpius asked, then sighed as Rose and Al looked at him blankly. "Yes, I think they would. Well, my dad might have, at least."

"So why the sudden change in heart?" Rose asked in a much nicer tone. "Why are you talking to us now?"

"Well, my mom sent me a letter this morning," said Scorpius, smiling slightly.

"_That's _why there was an owl in my bed!" Al exclaimed.

"My apologies," said Scorpius. "She has a terrible sense of direction. And no depth perception. And she's colorblind.

"Anyways, long story short, my mother said that my father is sulking like I never sulked as a five-year-old, but that he'll get over it, and Durmstrang is terribly far away, and the cold would wreak havoc on my complexion and my hair, so I'm to stay at Hogwarts and – how did she put this? – I'll 'just have to deal with those boorish Gryffindors, dear, and maybe you can show them a thing or two about manners. And tell that Weasley girl to comb her hair, for goodness' sakes. The Potter boy could use some grooming too.'" There was a stunned silence, and then all three children laughed together.

"Our hair is a lost cause, Scorpius," said Rose, giggling.

"Your mom sounds amazing," said Al.

"She's absolutely wonderful, yes," Scorpius agreed as Al reached up and knocked on the large wooden door.

"We'll have to talk continue this later," Rose said quietly as the door creaked open.

_**Author's Note:**_

_My sincerest apologies for the lateness of this chapter. My only excuse – and I'm not trying to play the pity card here – is that there have been some rather . . . extenuating circumstances in my personal life this week. I lost a lot of time and focus because of them. The circumstances, I mean. By the time Saturday came, I thought I had an entire chapter written, only to go back to it and realize that it was really just a bunch of completely disconnected paragraphs that didn't relate to each other in the slightest. I couldn't publish that; I'm hoping this is marginally better, though I didn't have as much time to edit it as I would have liked. _

_A quick note to those of you who are __**superhardcore**__ canon-followers: you'll notice that I put the first-years' Astronomy class on Thursday instead of Wednesday. My explanation is as follows: it's been twenty-six years since Harry and Co. were first-years at Hogwarts. The schedule has probably changed slightly in that time, and you know what? That's ok. Thursday works better in my story :)  
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_And now, the thank-yous. Thank you for reading this, I adore you. Thank you for adding me to favorites and/or alerts lists, I think you're wonderful. And especially, especially, thank you for reviewing, especially, especially if you have been consistently reading and reviewing. I absolutely love you. __**And**__ I take your advice into consideration – I do not claim to be perfect in any way, and I'm an amateur writer at best, so all of your feedback is both helpful and seriously contemplated. I'd also like to acknowledge a resource that has been very helpful to me: a little website called the Harry Potter Lexicon (did you know that the second result if you Google HPL is Houston Public Library locations? The first being the Lexicon, of course). Unfortunately, I actually don't have all of my Harry Potter books with me currently – a travesty, I know – and even if I did, it would be rather trying to have to look up every little fact I need. I have fully taken advantage of the awesomeness that is the Lexicon, and I'd like to thank the wonderful folks over there for their indirect help in keeping my story canon-compliant. _

_**Edit**: As some of you may have noticed, the rating of this fic has been upped from "K+" to "T". I read back over the whole thing, thought very hard, and decided that a fiction directed at children (under the age of, say, 13) would probably not have a section directly referencing parental drunkenness. Yes, genetically speaking, all of us have parents, and yes, statistically speaking, they have probably all been drunk and/or hungover at some point in their lives. That doesn't mean you should know about it at age 12. So that's why. Also, I wanted a little more leeway for the future.  
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_Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the update! I know it's mostly filler stuff, but it's still a rather necessary chapter. I could have just started referencing characters like Dax Destrier or Professor Lymer Wistorren without it, but that wouldn't have made much sense at all to you. I promise much plot furtherance in future chapters. :D Have a wonderful week!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6: The Letter**

_**Disclaimer: **__Did you know that there is still some debate as to whether or not a virus is "alive"? You see, they possess most of the characteristics required for "life": they are composed of cells (or viral units), they use energy, they respond to their environment, they are able to grow. But they cannot reproduce – at least, not by themselves. One of the reasons viruses persisted in being incurable for so long was that it was impossible to isolate what was causing the disease. Scientists would remove infected material, put it in a nutrient-rich environment, and wait . . . and wait, and wait, and wait. Nothing would grow. It turns out that the way viruses grow is actually by hijacking cellular machinery from whatever they're infecting in order to reproduce more copies of themselves. They do not possess this machinery naturally, and so they cannot reproduce without a host. I view fanfiction kind of as a virus (wait! Not a bad one! Not all viruses are bad!). We, the writers of fanfiction, could not exist without a host – that is, without an already-created, already-written space to write in. Without that, fanfiction would not exist. It would just be, well . . . fiction. Or non-existent, in the way that viruses cease to exist without a host. And, when a new paper about a virus is published in the scientific world, there is always a nod to the type of cell that was used to grow the virus for experimentation. Similarly, I would like to give a nod to Ms. J.K. Rowling, without whose work my stories could not exist. I'd like to thank Ms. Rowling for all of her hard work, and for letting me play around with it. And I'd like to point out that, since my story isn't pure fiction, taking it and using it for your own purposes would be like trying to grow a virus in a virus. Which doesn't really work. Although there are viruses that infect other viruses, but that's a completely different issue . . ._

"Been expectin' yeh, Al, Rosie." Hagrid beamed at them, framed in his enormous doorway. He was much the same as he had always been; his hair perhaps had a few more streaks of grey, but that could also have just been the glare from the sun as Rose squinted up at him. He had donned his famous flowery apron, hopefully for the purpose of concocting something fit to be eaten, and his pan-sized hands were covered in flour. He smacked them together, trying to beat some of the white powder off, and succeeded in showering the three first-years in what looked like a fresh coating of snow. Scorpius coughed and shook his head, setting off a new miniaturized flour storm. "And who might this be, eh?"

"We brought you a Malfoy, Hagrid!" said Al cheerily, jumping up and down in an effort to shake the flour off.

"A wha', then?"

"A Malfoy. But we swear he's tame."

"So we _think_," said Rose, brushing her flour-tinted, now pinkish hair out of her eyes.

"Yes, step right up, folks, it's the world's first and only specimen of 'nice Malfoy!'" Scorpius muttered, rolling his eyes and brushing the remaining powder off his robes. "May we come inside?"

"Sure, sure, 'course yeh can," Hagrid replied, bemused. "Take a seat, o'course."

"I'm Scorpius, by the way," said the blond boy as they entered, suddenly remembering his manners. He stuck out a small hand. Hagrid shook it wonderingly, looking concerned that it might turn into a dead fish at any moment. Scorpius finally had to almost wrench his arm from the half-giant's grip before going to join Al and Rose around the table.

Hagrid had set out two normal-sized and one Hagrid-sized chair around his battered wooden table, but now he hurried to a corner, retrieved another small chair, and set it carefully at a corner of the table. As Scorpius clambered onto his chair, trying very hard to hide his obvious disdain for the bleached and scruffy wood, Rose examined the cabin for the first time.

After all she had heard about it, all the tales of sneaking out to Hagrid's for usually-noble purposes, she had somehow expected the cottage to be, well . . . bigger. Yes, huts as a rule tended to be on the small side, but surely huts that held hippogriffs and convicts; whisperings and conspiracies; and, on one memorable occasion, a female dragon named Norbert; surely such a hut would be grander than its average brethren. But for all the legend, pomp, and circumstance, Hagrid's hut looked about the same as any other - aside from the crossbow in the corner, and the relatively oversized furniture.

It seemed to Rose that Hagrid's enormous bed and patchwork quilt took up most of the floor space in the one-room cabin. Another corner was dominated by the shredded remains of a large basket heaped with equally shredded blankets. Knowing what she knew about Hagrid, that corner did not bode well. However, there appeared to be no imminent danger, and Rose knew better than to ask Hagrid about any of his critters. She turned away from a disturbingly tooth-marked chew toy, and saw a fireplace in the corner opposite, over which Hagrid had hung a teapot and a cauldron that was steaming ominously. On a nearby dresser sat several framed photographs, many of which were very familiar. In one simple frame was an old picture of her mother and father with Uncle Harry. It must have been taken soon after the war was over: they still seemed awfully young, and all three looked as though they could use a good meal or ten. Hermione and Ron were holding hands, though, and Harry's face was worn, but happy. Next to it was a copy of the most recent Potter-Weasley-Lupin clan picture, complete with James and Al's impromptu wrestling session, Lily's duct-taped mouth, and Louis's half-orange face (painted to match his hair, he had said). Hermione looked disapproving but on the verge of laughter, Aunt Angelina was yelling half-heartedly at Roxanne, Uncle Harry's glasses were askew, and Grandma Weasley's smile looked to take over the world. Family photos were always something of a wonderful disaster. Next to the picture, Rose saw a stack of papers that looked suspiciously like all of the Weasley-Potter-Lupin clan's combined and separate Christmas cards for the last, say, nineteen years or so. Hagrid had become sentimental these last two decades.

The Groundskeeper himself was bustling around, looking oddly matronly in his floral apron as he set out four giant mugs of tea. The chairs came in assorted sizes; the mugs, apparently, did not – Rose could have comfortably used any of them as a rather unbecoming hat. Hagrid hummed tunelessly as he carefully removed a tray from the steaming cauldron. Rose laughed in surprise when, instead of rock cakes, he served each of them a hearty slice of what looked like some sort of fruitcake. Fruitcake had a bad reputation, Rose knew, but this looked potentially appetizing. At least, it looked as though it might contain a good amount of sugar, which essentially meant the same thing. Having finished playing the hostess, Hagrid sat down with his own mug (Rose could have sworn she saw him pour something from a flask on the counter into it) and a heavy sigh. The table suddenly felt crowded – and awkward. There was silence in the little room, except for the sound of Hagrid's fingers drumming aimlessly on the table. Scorpius was staring down at his mug as though trying to read the tea leaves at the bottom; Al was looking around aimlessly, swinging his legs underneath his chair; and Rose picked at her fruitcake contemplatively. The silence broke when Hagrid grunted. Or perhaps chuckled – it was hard to tell the difference.

"So, there'r three of yeh. Again. A Weasley, a Potter, and – well, I can't say I expected a Malfoy, but I've learned with yer families that yeh'll never be right if yeh expect much of anythin'." Scorpius stiffened a bit.

"I expected a normal childhood," said Al guilelessly. There was a pause, and then he, Rose, and Hagrid burst out laughing. Even Scorpius smiled a bit.

After that, it was almost easy for a time. Hagrid, of course, asked about their first week of school. Rose, of course, responded enthusiastically, with Al interjecting occasionally. Scorpius, of course, kept his silence, small hands wrapped around his mug, his head moving back and forth to watch the conversation like a Quidditch spectator. His eyes were bright and attentive, but only Rose and Al kept up the conversation. Hagrid beamed as they told him about Herbology lessons with Uncle Neville, laughed at Al's rather flamboyant impression of Professor Wistorren, and looked grave when Professor Callister came up.

"You don't like Callister?" Al asked, noticing Hagrid's frown and the deep furrows between his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Now, I won't speak ill of a professor, yeh know," said Hagrid, shifting uncomfortably. "But 'e's not exactly the kind o' person yeh think to trust right away."

"Why not?"

" 'e's got a history, that one. I don't know what it is yet, but I'd bet it's not full of pygmy puffs an' flobberworms,"

"Are you warning us against him?" Rose asked carefully.

"I learned sumthin' from my time with yer parents. Yeh lot have heard about Professor Quirrel?" All three nodded. "Well, 'e always gave me the willies, that one. An' even Professor Snape wasn't what 'e seemed, in the end. Yeh have to trust yer gut, even here at Hogwarts. And my gut's not fond o' Professor Callister. 'e's an ominous character."

Rose and Al nodded gravely, exchanging looks, while Scorpius stared intently at Hagrid as though trying to see the machinations of his overlarge brain.

"And speakin' of ominous," Hagrid continued. "I almost forgot - I got a letter for yeh, Rose."

"An ominous letter?" asked Rose in confusion.

"O' sorts. Yer dad sent it to me," Hagrid explained. "Said 'e didn't want yeh openin' it in the Great Hall with everyone watchin'."

"Couldn't he have written that on the envelope?" Rose asked.

"Right, because that would have stopped you," Al rejoined. Rose ignored him.

"What's it say in the letter that I can't open it in front of people?" she asked.

"Dunno," said Hagrid. "S'not my letter. Hold on jus' a moment." He stood up slowly, outsized joints creaking loudly, and walked the three steps over to his bed. Kneeling down, he pulled a heavy-looking wooden trunk from underneath and unlocked it with one of several keys hung at his waist. His back was to the three first-years as he opened the trunk just a crack, and Rose leaned around to get a glimpse of what else might be in the trunk. The lid snapped shut almost as soon as it had opened, though, and Hagrid returned to the table with a rather thick-looking envelope. He sat down heavily and pushed the letter across the table. "Open it later," he said. "Alone." Rose knew that he wouldn't have bothered to make that distinction if it had been just she and Al there; it would be taken for granted that she would tell Al anything and everything. But with Scorpius . . . Rose nodded slowly, staring at the envelope. Al also sat silently, intently gawping, burning with curiosity that was practically tangible. Scorpius, on the other hand, was so markedly indifferent that Rose knew he must have been absolutely itching to know what the letter said. Rose lifted her head slowly and met his grey, disinterested gaze.

"I . . ." she faltered, and it was at that moment that a miniaturized earthquake entered the room. It seemed to originate from the area of the back door to the pumpkin patch, with a small ball of fur at its raging center. Two out of the three children shouted discordantly in alarm. Well, Al shouted; Rose mostly shrieked, and Scorpius's eyes merely grew impossibly wide. His hair may have also gotten slightly disheveled as he whipped his head around trying to get a glimpse of the monster, but otherwise his reaction was far more understated than that of the other first years. . Chaos reigned, at least momentarily. Dishes were knocked over, drying herbs were scattered, and Scorpius was absolutely covered in slobber before Hagrid managed to get the unidentified furry object under control. When all was said and done, Hagrid sat on the floor next to his crossbow holding a shockingly small dog, all big tan-colored paws and floppy charcoal ears. The puppy was panting happily, its scrunched-up face arranged in a large, toothy, canine almost-smile.

"What is that _thing?_" Scorpius asked, wringing out his robes.

"Sorry 'bout that," said Hagrid, panting almost as much as the dog, grinning with boyish enthusiasm that looked very incongruous on his large face. "This is Muffin. Muffin's a mastiff, 'bout three months old. She's tiny now, and sweet, but wait – she'll be bigger'n most o' the seventh-years here before she's done growin'."

"You named it _Muffin?_" asked Rose incredulously.

"Where can I get one?" asked Al.

"Are you _mad?_" said Scorpius disbelievingly, to Al or to Hagrid, or more likely both.

"Tiny paws," said Al, his grin matching Hagrid's. "Huge chaos. What's not to want?"

Their visit devolved into rather a lot of puppy-coddling after that. Even Scorpius consented to pat the overexcited mastiff puppy on the head, rather stiffly, precisely three times, and allowed before they left that Muffin was, "Adorable, yes. About as cute as a creature of mass destruction can be." Muffin seemed to appreciate that quite a lot, and by the time they crossed the threshold back outside, Scorpius was again covered in dog slobber, and was practically shedding tan-colored fur from his previously pristine black robes.

"Eurgh," he said eloquently as the door shut behind them. Al laughed at the look on his pointed face as they began walking back up towards the castle. Their visit to Hagrid's cabin hadn't seemed overly long, but night settled down on Hogwarts earlier than it had back home in England, and dusk was rapidly becoming their twilit reality. If they didn't hurry, they might miss dinner in the Great Hall. Not that any of them were particularly hungry; for a first attempt, Hagrid's fruitcake had been astonishingly delicious. Still, the three exchanged a look before quickening their pace – it wouldn't do for them to be caught outside of the castle at this hour. Best they'd be in their places for dinner. Their robes billowed behind them in a pleasingly dramatic manner, and Rose clutched the envelope tightly in her fist as the night wind toyed with the edges of the paper.

As the threesome strode back the castle, Rose watched lights flicker on in the windows one by one. Hogwarts looked like a fairy-tale by night, she knew. The fading light obscured the harsh, almost militant lines of the fortress-like castle, and softened the corners that occurred in odd places due to the magical and changeable nature of the building. The shadows of the castle lengthened and crept towards Rose's feet as she walked. She was caught up watching the last sliver of the sun slide behind one of the castle's many precarious towers when she tripped over a tree root and nearly face-planted. Wheeling her arms wildly to regain balance, she merely dropped the envelope containing her father's letter instead. She righted herself, blushing furiously as Al chuckled. He spotted the letter lying on the ground, and, just as Rose bent to reach for it herself, his hand whipped out. He had the envelope off the ground and in his hands before Rose had even completed the action of bending down; Al had incredible reflexes, when he bothered to use them.

Rose held out her hand wordlessly. Smiling, he placed the heavy paper into her hands, but refused to relinquish his hold on it. They had a brief and silent session of tug-of-war. Scorpius watched, grey eyes flickering back and forth with some degree of muted amusement.

"Al, give it here!" Rose insisted. "It's mine!"

"Well," Al said, "I could give it back to you. But I really, _really_ want to know what it says, so . . ."

"It's _my _letter. Give it, Al, you're going to rip it!"

"You're going to rip it just as much as I am!" Al was laughing at this point, chuckling as Rose's face turned progressively redder and her mouth grew more and more set with the effort of pulling the letter. She was less than amused.

"Al! Come on, it's not funny!"

"Let's make a deal: we'll all read it together."

"Al," Rose said, trying to meet her cousin's devious green eyes, "_Not now_, ok?"

"What do you mean, not now?"

"I mean _not. Now._"

"Then when?"

"What she means, Al," Scorpius broke in, "Is that she doesn't want to open it in front of _me_." Al let go of the envelope without warning, and Rose stumbled over her feet to tumble on her back in the grass.

"_Al!_"

"Is that really why?" her cousin asked, looking down at her as she struggled to untangle robes and limbs without bending the envelope. Rose didn't have a response for him – not one that wouldn't hurt Scorpius, anyway. She fiddled with her sleeves instead, straightening them compulsively.

"Of course that's why," said Scorpius, striding over to where she had fallen. He held out a hand to Rose and helped her up. Her cheeks were flaming, she could feel it, and she couldn't meet his eyes. "But I don't hold it against you, of course," he added quietly. "I understand."

"Oh, come on, Rose, lighten up! Scorpius is a good guy; I'm sure he can handle whatever's in that letter."

"It's private," mumbled Rose, feebly searching for an excuse. She tripped and almost lost her footing again, but Scorpius grabbed her arm.

"I wouldn't tell anyone, you know," Scorpius replied seriously, steadying her.

"It's a . . . it's a family matter."

"Is it about the Feast, Rose? Only, I'm pretty sure Scorpius has already figured that bit out."

"I have, yes."

"See?"

"No, it's not about the Feast. It's about another . . . family thing. It's a secret."

"If it's that much of a secret, they wouldn't have told you," said Al firmly. "I'm sure Scorpius won't tell anyone, whatever it is. Come on, Rose, I'm _dying _of curiosity here, and I'm sure Scorpius is too. You wouldn't keep us suffering, would you?"

"I _am_ awfully curious," Scorpius admitted. "And I swear on my family's honor not to tell a single soul, if that'll help." He and Al both looked beseechingly at Rose. Al's face was somewhere between innocent-puppy-dog and you-owe-me-one-from-that-time-I-helped-you-out-by-tranquilizing-Hugo, while Scorpius seemed to be content taking the standard-pleading-expression route.

"Your family's Slytherin version of honor doesn't exactly inspire my trust," Rose retorted sharply, then immediately wished she hadn't. Al made a strangled noise that definitely meant she had done something socially unacceptable again, but Scorpius only sighed and shook his head, taking a step back.

"Well, someday, Rose, I'll do something very brave and very stupid, thereby proving myself to be a true and trustworthy Gryffindor to all and sundry. For now, though, you'll just have to take my word that I simply don't care enough to tell anybody about your family's precious little problems." Even with his Wiltshire drawl, Scorpius sounded as though he was biting off the ends of each word.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Scorpius. I shouldn't have said that." Rose said softly.

"No, you shouldn't have," Scorpius responded, his tone tempered with equanimity. "But I understand. I can – I can walk ahead, if you want to open the letter with Al." He turned away to begin walking, his back unnaturally straight. Rose was determined to let him go, but one glace at Al's reproachful eyes had her rethinking (even though she _knew_ he had practiced that look in front of a mirror - she'd been coaching him at the time, after all). Reason, pity, and the tenuous beginnings of trust warred in her mind, until -

"Wait!" she cried. Scorpius turned, looking ridiculously hopeful. "Scorpius, you can – you can stay. We'll all read the letter." Scorpius's mouth crooked into a half-smile.

The three Gryffindors were still out in the open, but the light was better away from the lengthening shadows of the trees that dotted the field. Rose sat down right where she was, and Al and Scorpius joined her. The three sat in a semicircle – their backs to the castle, just in case – as Rose carefully opened the seal on the heavy letter and spread it out so that they could all read. Al's face scrunched in concentration as he began to read, but Scorpius's remained bland, almost serene, and pointed (well, he was born that way – it couldn't be helped). Rose bit her lip thoughtfully as she read her father's cramped, hurried handwriting.

**Dear Rosie,**

**I hope your first week at Hogwarts has been less eventful than your first night. Not to say that I don't think the Feast is fun – it is – but, you know, sometimes normalcy and sleep are nice.**

**I've been trying to figure out what to say in this letter for a while now, but writing is much more your mother's territory, and, well, we're both better off if she doesn't know I'm sending this, so here goes nothing.**

**You might be in danger. There, I said it. Now, Rosie, don't worry yourself too much about it. The letters we got might be nothing more than passing strange. Oh, but I should tell you about the letters first.**

**About two weeks before we sent you and Al off to Hogwarts, your Uncle Harry and I received almost identical letters. They didn't mention you or Al by name, there were no direct threats – there wasn't much of anything, really. Just some faintly disturbing, childish rhymes that seemed to be directed towards mine and Harry's children – you and Al, more specifically. It was all very strange, and very vague. I've copied them out here, so you can see what I'm talking about. The first one was sent to Harry and Ginny, the second to your mother and I.**

**_Hey diddle diddle_**

**_A Potter cracked a Riddle_**

**_And raised a Snake of his own_**

**_But no one will laugh at his vanishing act_**

**_When the Serpent falls prey to the Stone_**

**_Hey diddle diddle_**

**_When Potter did for Riddle_**

**_You played a part of your own_**

**_But what will you do when it's time for round two_**

**_And Stone does for Flower half-grown?_**

**Very odd, right?**

**You can imagine that your Uncle Harry and I have been worried a bit about sending you lot off to Hogwarts since then, but, again, we think you'll be safe there. We know you'll be safe at home when you're here. And the letters were only sent to Harry and I, so we didn't see the need to worry the rest of the family.**

**In the meantime, we've been working on tracing them. They arrived at our doorsteps. By the time we found them (stuffed into the cracks of our front doors, no less), any sign of the owl that must have delivered them was long gone. They're written in what Harry tells me is "ballpoint pen" on something he calls "regular paper," which apparently doesn't mean parchment. In fact, there seems to be no detectable traces of magic on them at all, which is also very strange, and begs the question: why would a Muggle target two well-known Wizarding families? Our theory right now is that it was, in fact, a wizard or witch who sent the letters, but they were clever enough to use methods that are fairly untraceable. At least for now. With your mother's brains, she'll probably have this figured out in another week or so.**

**Back to the point, though. None of us feel that you or Al are in any immediate danger. I do think, though, that it's right for you to be warned. Your mother and Al's parents seem to have forgotten what it felt like to be left in the dark by our parents, our professors, and Dumbledore countless times, but I haven't . I think you're old enough and responsible enough to be trusted with this, Rosie. That said, please don't do anything that I would consider stupid. Be careful. And, I probably don't even need to say this, but be smart.**

**I love you, Rosie, and I hope Hogwarts is everything you wanted it to be. We'll talk soon.**

**Love,**

**Dad.**

**P.S. Your mother would kill me for saying this, but I'm chuffed you're in Gryffindor. Hope the old tower's treating you well.**

Rose, of course, finished reading before the boys and sat back. She was thinking not of what the letter said - there was time for that later. No, she was pondering the two heads huddled close together reading the remainder of the letter right now. What did it mean that she had let Scorpius read it? It wasn't much of a concession, she knew. She was only letting him see this one letter, this one time, after all. But it felt as though her permission meant so much more. It felt, somewhat ludicrously, as though a door had been opened. As though there was no turning back now. Rose's fingers drummed scales up and down her leg. She looked at Al's open, incredulous face, at the set of Scorpius's mouth, at her own fingers as they rushed along her robes, and couldn't help the half-formed thought that trailed through her mind like smoke unfurling on the wind. _And so it starts . . ._

_**Author's Note:**__ Um. I'm sorry. That is all. _

_I don't really have an excuse or an explanation for why this is so late other than . . . life? 42? A slight and sudden Buffy the Vampire Slayer addiction? Writer's block? Yeah, that's all I've got. That said, I think I'm going to go back on my earlier promise to post once a week. I've found that I actually work better without that kind of deadline. My writing turns out better, because I end up writing when I want to, when I have a new idea, not because I feel like I have to. _

_Anywho, thanks as usual to all of you who are reading this, to those who added me to your favorites/alerts list (and more of you should do that, you know, since I'm not being consistent and all . . . hint hint wink), and a GINORMOUS thank you to those of you who reviewed. Thank you for sticking with me so far through this story – I will see it through to the end, barring some sort of freak accident or random time-and-space-upheaval incident. I less-than-three you all! And now I kind of want to kill myself for saying that . . ._

_More to come soon-ish! The next chapter is mostly written, it's just currently in my mind, which, unfortunately, I can't download directly to fanfiction._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7: Pressing Matters**

_**Disclaimer: **__They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But then again, they say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, so what do they know? __**I**__ know that they are wrong on both counts. Sarcasm is hilarious, and imitation is really more annoying than anything. Seriously. Did anyone else with younger siblings ever have this conversation?_

_**Me**__: Stop following me._

_**Sib:**__ Stop following me._

_**Me:**__ Stop copying me. _

_**Sib:**__ Stop copying me. _

_**Me:**__ I mean it!_

_**Sib:**__ I mean it!_

_**Me:**__ MOM!_

_**Sib:**__ MOM!_

_No fun whatsoever. But on a more serious note, plagiarism is one form of imitation. And it's illegal. It is bad. It is not flattery; it is claiming that someone else's hard work belongs to you, and that is all sorts of wrong (like, Oedipal levels of wrong. Or Elektra levels of wrong, I guess, depending on which way you swing). Point is: plagiarism is bad. I am good. I do not plagiarize. Ergo, disclaimery goodness! The following story utilizes characters, settings, and plot points from the oeuvre of Ms. J.K. Rowling, without whose work I would procrastinate a lot less. Thank you to Ms. Rowling for allowing me to use some of her work in a non-copying manner for the basis of my own story. Enjoy! _

"To sum it up, then," said Scorpius, leaning forward and dropping his voice, "We can be fairly certain that Rose is the Flower, which means that Al is likely the Serpent and/or Snake. But who do you think this Stone could be?"

"Why _Snake_? Why do I have to be the _Snake_?" Al said plaintively for the umpteenth time.

"For the last time, Al," Rose sighed, rolling her eyes expressively, "Your parents named you Albus Severus Potter. Your initials are ASP. If you have an issue with that, you can take it up with them, or wait until you come of age and change the name yourself. But for the time being, we're going on the assumption that you are the only Snake your father could have possibly raised, unless I missed the giant boa constrictor living in your basement." Scorpius snorted, then immediately looked horrified.

"I'm just trying to break the tension a little, Rose," said Al in a righteous tone.

"And we appreciate your efforts immensely," said Scorpius, "But we're going to have precious little time undisturbed in this corner before some member of your family interrupts us again to ask if I've lost my way to the Slytherin Common Room. So –"

"You know you shouldn't be offended when they do that, right Scorpius?" Rose asked.

"Yeah," Al chimed in. "They only make fun of people they don't violently hate. So you're good, mate!"

"Oh, happy day," said Scorpius, leaning his head against the wall in a way that suggested he would rather be repeatedly banging it against that particular spot. Rose wound her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth as she thought.

The three first-years had claimed a corner of the Gryffindor Common Room as soon as dinner was over. Al had been all for using the Room of Requirement to talk things over, but Rose pointed out that it was after-hours, and after all, if they talked quietly, the Common Room would serve just fine – it wasn't as though they were preparing illicit potions or holding illegal club meetings. Thankfully, Scorpius had backed her up. So here they had come, and here they had been for the last hour, hashing and rehashing, and occasionally being interrupted by various relatives or Annabelle's high-pitched and rapid theorizations on the answers to tonight's Defense homework.

Rose had told the boys about everything she had overheard after the Feast of the Anunciation. Al had understandably been upset that she had neglected to tell him sooner, but chalked it up to her being a "secretly incurable school-aholic, and slightly homework obsessed to boot." Then, of course, they both had to backtrack and fill Scorpius in on what they had learned at the Feast (leaving out the more sensitive details, of course). As he claimed earlier, he had figured most of it out on his own, but he had more vague notions than clearly formed ideas, and the conversation Rose had overheard didn't make much sense without some background. Rose had a brief moment of panic when Scorpius adroitly went right for the detail she hadn't meant to include in her retelling, but she managed to muddle through with an excuse and a smile ("Wait. What's a Hallow, Rose? I know I've heard that word before somewhere." "Oh, it's . . . another word for a Horcrux! Yes. It's an archaic form of the word 'Horcrux.'"). Scorpius quirked an eyebrow at her as Al elbowed her rather sharply in the stomach, but she pasted her smile on valiantly until the blond boy shrugged and moved on. Once everyone was all caught up, all questions asked, and the conversation between their parents repeated so many times that Al and Scorpius probably could have recited it verbatim themselves, they moved into the realm of speculation.

"Stone," said Rose musingly.

"Stone," Al repeated, furrowing his brow.

"It could be a name," Scorpius suggested.

"Or a code name!" Al exclaimed happily. Rose and Scorpius stared at him, nonplussed. "What? Like, how 'Flower' and 'Serpent' aren't our real names. Maybe this guy's name has something to do with a stone of some kind."

"Who says it has to be a guy?" Rose began indignantly.

"That's a good point, Al," said Scorpius hurriedly, cutting Rose off before she could really get a good tirade started.

"Thanks."

"Yes," said Rose, settling down from her brief flirtation with a feminist rant, "I suppose it could be a name. That would make sense. But can you think of anyone whose name has to do with a stone?"

"Well, there's – " Al began, but trailed off as he failed to think of a name on the fly. "Not immediately, no."

"I think my father played Quidditch with a Marcus Flint," Scorpius said slowly, squinting upward as though that might help him remember better.

"Well, he was a Slytherin, then," said Al, "That's a good start on the whole 'threatening children' bit. No offense, of course, Scorpius."

"None taken," the blond boy sighed. "It's bad form to be offended by the truth. And I don't remember my father speaking of him fondly, which, let's be honest, demotes him even further in the ranks of kindheartedness."

"But it probably wasn't him," Rose said confidently. Al gave her one of his explain-to-me-how-you-could-possibly-know-that looks, so she elaborated. "Well, no one's seen Marcus Flint since before the Battle of Hogwarts, have they?" Al gave her another look.

"What? His name's on the list of those that went missing during the War. It's right inside the doors of the Great Hall. Don't tell me you've never looked."

"I've never looked," Al said blithely. "But I believe you. So it's probably not Flint, but he's not necessarily out of the running. What about others? Maybe a previous Death Eater with some hidden Muggle connection? Any ideas, Scorpius?"

"Well, I could ask my father, but he doesn't like to be reminded that he was a Death Eater. It's a touchy subject."

"He feels bad about the poor decisions he made as a kid?" Al asked, nodding in sympathy.

"No," Scorpius replied lightly, "Mum says he's still sulking because he picked the losing team."

The conversation went in circles after that. Was this 'Stone' a person? Who could it be? How could they find out? Al and Scorpius were becoming deeply embroiled in a discussion of how they might access and wizarding census and somehow comb through it to find any and all names that might be stone, rock, or mineral related while Rose stared vaguely at the space over the fireplace. Her quiet question interrupted Al's ramblings on security at the Ministry of Magic.

"What if 'Stone' doesn't refer to a person?"

"What?" asked Al, deflating; he had been awfully excited about the possibilities of breaking into the Ministry and rifling through secured documents. It would be almost as dangerous as the time he and Rose snuck into James's room to kidnap Mr. Puggles for a ransom of two Canary Creams.

"We've been assuming that, because 'Flower' and 'Snake' refer to us, 'Stone' also refers to a person. What if it's an object? Or even a place?"

"Interesting," said Scorpius. "What object? Or what place?"

"The Philosopher's Stone!" Al exclaimed.

"Which was destroyed after your father's first year here, I believe," Scorpius pointed out.

"Oh. Right." Al looked like he was drawing a blank, but Rose's mind was whirring with new possibilities. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Not a Stone, _the _Stone – the Stone! - but she couldn't share her epiphany in present company. She had to come up with something believable, something else.

"What about a place, like Stonehenge?" she said quickly. "I think I read something about its use in archaic rites or -"

"Stonehenge hasn't been used for Muggle sacrifices or sinister magical rituals in over four hundred years," Scorpius said automatically, sounding slightly defensive. He blushed lightly. "Sorry. Stonehenge is in Wiltshire. My family was, ahem –"

"The last ones doing the sacrificing?"

"Well. Yes." Scorpius had the grace to look at least slightly ashamed, but Al apparently found the whole thing rather funny. He was still chuckling when Melisenda Wilkes waltzed her unwelcome way into to their corner.

"Lose your way to the Slytherin common room, Malfoy?" she sneered.

"Ooooh, creative," Al said wryly.

"Doesn't mocking and generally irritating everyone in the vicinity ever get old for you?" Scorpius asked wearily.

"Doesn't sucking up to your famous friends ever get old for you?"

"Look, Wilkes, I won't claim to understand what your problem is –"

"No problem here, Malfoy. Just passing through."

"Could you pass a little quicker then?" Rose asked peevishly. "We're busy."

"I'll pass as quickly or slowly as I want," said Melisenda haughtily, then belied her words by turning away. "I just came to tell you that _I _didn't mess with your stuff, Rose,  
>she said over her shoulder, "Just so you know who <em>not <em>to blame. And just to clarify, I'm leaving now because I want to, not because you asked." Al snickered as she walked off, and Rose glared at him.

"What? I've used that line on my parents before. I never understood why they laughed at me before, but – well, it just sounds awfully . . ."

"Infantile? I was thinking the same thing." Scorpius sighed heavily. "Where were we?"

"We were clearly not making any more progress tonight," Rose said. "I kind of want to go see what happened, in case you missed the part where Melisenda said someone had been through my things. Why don't we all do a little bit of research – from whatever sources we can get – and we'll meet again later."

Scorpius and Al nodded in assent and stood up. Scorpius fastidiously checked his robes for any sign of lint or wrinkle while Al stretched hugely, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"I hope everything's all right, Rose," her cousin began earnestly. "But while I have you here for a moment longer, have you made any headway on that Defense Against the Dark Arts essay?"

"The one where we're supposed to identify and describe five Dark Creatures that are subject to common misconceptions?"

"That's the one."

"Yes, I'm done with it."

"Any chance you'd let me look yours over?"

"Not on your life." As Rose walked to the stairs, she could hear Al behind her.

" . . . Hey Scorpius –"

"My apologies, Al; the answer is no."

Rose rolled her eyes and jogged up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. She was slightly apprehensive, and the fact that interactions with Melisenda in general left a bad taste in her mouth didn't help. Annabelle had been right that first day – Melisenda had thus far displayed every possible indication that she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with her fellow first-year Gryffindors. She was usually caustic, loudly obnoxious at every opportunity, and had an endless stock of insults or ridicules to heap on her peers. Rose learned that she had an older sister, one Wendella Wilkes (who had a tendency to punch anyone who didn't refer to her as 'Wendy'), and that Melisenda absolutely idolized her third-year Slytherin sister. Rose couldn't much understand what there was to idolize – Wendy was a known troublemaker, a loud-mouthed brat with a reputation for earning more detentions than she did points on her exams. She and Melisenda stalked the halls together often, long ponytails swinging menacingly as their brown eyes squinted with identical malice at passers-by. Melisenda had picked up on all her sister's unpleasant habits. Poking her nose into other people's business was one of them – even when it came to people she absolutely and loudly despised, like Rose.

Which was partially why Rose's stomach twisted like an uncomfortably cramping snake as she climbed the stairs, and probably why the back of her throat burned with every step. She reached the door to her room and stood in front of it for a moment, steeling herself for whatever chaos she might have to face upon opening it. _There wasn't anything in there that I couldn't replace_, she told herself staunchly as she put her palm on the door and pushed.

Yet when the door swung open, Rose felt a vague sense of disappointment, overlayed by a much stronger sense of relief. She had been worried that maybe something of hers was missing, or that her things would be clearly and inconveniently disturbed from their normal position. Instead, it appeared that Melisenda had merely been referring to the fact that her trunk had been moved approximately half a meter to the left. It was strange, certainly, but not a cause for commotion or worry. Now, at least, she had the rest of the night to focus on her Herbology homework.

Then she could get started on researching the Resurrection Stone.

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Homework had never taken Rose a long time to complete, blessed as she was with the genetic Granger advantage of intelligence. However, while her mother had slaved away on perfecting every essay, every word, every comma, Rose's Weasley side rebelled against such perfectionism. She loved school, she didn't mind the assignments (some of them were quite interesting, actually, though she would not have admitted that with a wand to her throat) but she wasn't about to let them get in the way of more important things - such as her and Al's lives possibly being at stake.

Yet, as focused as Rose thought she'd be on the issue of her father's letter, her daily school activities claimed much more of her attention than she had bargained for. Instead of researching mineral-like names with a Death Eater connection, she spent her so-called free time drawing up Astronomy charts or practicing basic spells. And instead of looking into what she viewed as the more promising lead – the Resurrection Stone – she found herself filling endless pages of parchment with her obsessively neat handwriting, practicing her wandwork in the halls between classes, or muttering the names of increasingly obscure magical plants and animals under her breath in an effort to commit them to memory. In short, school consumed much of her time. Transfiguration and Potions were proving to be exceptionally difficult, though for markedly different reasons.

Professor Callister's lessons were what one might label as being "traditionally" difficult. He expected much out of his first-year students; in addition to teaching them about wand technique and spellwork, Callister also had begun assigning his students what he called "case studies." These referred to a specific incident in wizarding history in which Transfiguration had played a crucial role – for better or worse. The students were expected to research the incident, write up a brief summary, and then describe what they would have done differently in the same situation, and why. As class had only been in session for about a week, there had only been one case study as of yet. However, Rose was already sure that she would find each of them to be equally interesting – and she was sure they would come in handy for History of Magic exams as well. She was one of the only ones who felt that way, though; most students had taken to calling them "could-care-less-studies" in the storied, pseudo-creative tradition of criticizing professors at every opportunity. Admittedly, Callister perhaps assigned an excess of work, but his classroom policies ensured that the students feared him enough to complete every last assignment on time and with the spotless formatting he expected.

In his classroom, Professor Callister was little short of a tyrannical. He expected timeliness, organization, and respect at all times from his students. He brooked no sarcasm, no talking out of turn, no protest – nothing that he might label as "insubordination," which seemed an oddly militaristic term for a schoolteacher to use. He had a knack for calling on students just as they started to daydream and a sharp eye for any notes that might be passed in class. Katie McEwan's note to Anabelle Orion on the third day of class may only have been ten words long, but by the time Professor Callister had finished reading those ten words out loud, Katie was practically in tears. The Professor remained as stoic as ever as he dismissed both girls from his class that day, deducting ten points from Gryffindor as they all but fled. Rose thought he had been unnecessarily cruel, but she also had a tendency to think the worst of Callister after what Hagrid had said about him. And yet she laughed just as hard as the rest of the class whenever the Professor would catch a student sleeping in class. He had a policy of transfiguring these students' desks into various objects that were highly uncomfortable to wake up to. To date, he had used a Whomping Willow Bush, a box full of air horns, and a cage of Cornish Pixies. Even Scorpius sniggered behind his hands when Connor McLaggen had started awake that day to a chorus of shrill voices and a dozen blue hands pinching his nose.

No, Transfiguration was not a class that the first-years took lightly, nor any of the other students for that matter. However, while Professor Callister might have indeed been slightly insane, as some students claimed, or a convict and an Azkaban escapee, as many whispered behind his back, one thing was certain: he was one hell of a teacher. Within the month, the first-year class was already past transfiguring matches into needles (and back again), and had moved on to higher levels of Transformation spells. Recently, Rose had managed to change the pumpkin juice in her cup to water – still a same-state Transformation, to be sure, but liquids were much more tricky to transfigure than solids. Of course, shortly after the spell was successful, the water had inexplicably exploded rather violently, but that was beside the point. Transfiguration may have, at times, been hazardous to the collective health of Hogwarts' students, but Rose found it highly rewarding.

Potions class was also an immense challenge, though without the benefit of a reward in the end. The first time Professor Wistorren stopped fiddling with his maroon scarf long enough to allow his first years to brew a potion in earnest, the results could only have been called unmitigated chaos. Fiona Edgecombe, a small, freckled, Slytherin first-year, turned her cauldron into green sludge; the contents of Rastor Rosier's smoking potion had caused minor burns and hallucinations of all students within a two-meter radius; and clumsy Daxter Destrier fell straight into his cauldron, only to discover that it had somehow become a hologram. The shrieks of the scared, confused, and, in some cases, literally delusional students echoed off the stone walls of the dungeons. Professor Wistorren berated them all.

"Don't you know you're supposed to add the willow bark and stir precisely four-and-a-quarter times, clockwise?" he asked peevishly, waving noxious purple fumes away from his face.

"You never wrote that –" Al began.

"I said it three days ago!"

"Excuse me, sir –" Rose began as Bastion – another Slytherin first year - helped Rastor limp away from his cauldron. They were both muttering – Rose caught something about a unicorn with three horns and a double-rainbow tail.

"Miss Weasley?"

"You never said that, sir. You told us about the treatise you helped publish on willow extract, and about the merits of using a wood implement as opposed to metal in stirring a cauldron, and about why half-stirs are important, and how they were discovered, but you never mentioned anything about the willow bark. Sir."

Professor Wistorren opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking ridiculously fishlike, and then clamped his colorless lips shut, apparently deciding that there was no appropriate response to Rose's mildly accusatory comments. The rest of the day was spent in attempts to make the classroom look slightly less like a disaster area. Their efforts were mostly futile, though, as many students succumbed to minor hallucinations about unicorns, marshmallows, and fractal rainbows, and had to be taken to the Hospital Wing.

After that incident, Rose, Al, and Scorpius knew that drastic actions needed to be taken if life and limb were to be protected from the pervasive idiocy that was their Potions professor. Al was all for using creative vengeance tactics a la the Weasley-Potter-Lupin prank wars, but Rose put a stop to that ("Do you really think setting off Dungbombs in his classroom is going to make Wistorren's lessons any better?" "You're right, Rose. I guess they already stink enough as it is."). Scorpius, as usual the most level-headed of the three, suggested that they simply prepare themselves for classes in they way that Wistorren obviously couldn't – by actually reading about the potions they would have to make, and looking up the appropriate protocols.

"But," said Rose, crinkling her nose, "We'd have to go to the library for that."

"That is generally where books are found, yes." Scorpius adjusted his bag slightly as Dax brushed by it in his fast-paced clamor to get as far away from the Potions classroom as possible.

"Yes, but, well, you know, it's –"

"What Rose is trying to say is that she avoids libraries like the plague. Something about preserving her immaculate reputation as the class idiot, I think," Al said glibly. Rose remained stubbornly silent in the face of this accusation. It wasn't that she _never_ wanted to go to the library, per say. It was just that she wanted to wait a little longer before being seen heading in that direction by all of her peers. She had her mother's brains, that was undeniable – but she had noticed that every time Hermione began a sentence with "I have to go –" someone would inevitably finish it with "- to the library, right?" And that was almost two decades after school had ended! Rose hated hearing the same joke twice, let alone hearing it at least once a week for twenty-six years. No, she had no desire whatsoever to go to the library, and she wouldn't be convinced otherwise. Scorpius seemed to have other ideas, though.

"Rose," he said, adjusting his bag, "I have to tell you something that you might not like. I would suggest you sit down, but the middle of the hallway would be rather inconvenient for that. See, everyone already knows you're a brain." Rose sputtered, but Scorpius cut her off. "You've started tutoring Dax through his Charms homework less than three weeks into the year, you taught half the third years how to do a Cheering Charm in the Common Room two nights ago, and you sound like you swallowed a Eigenfeld's Extremely Inclusive Magical Encyclopedia as a child. You churn out homework assignments like Billywig Butter. You can give up the charade now. We all know, we don't particularly care, and can we go to the library now?"

". . . "

"Grand." There wasn't really anything she could say in protest, and so Rose let herself be escorted – as it were – in the direction of the library.

Despite her better instincts, Rose couldn't help but to be slightly excited as they approached. After all, Hogwarts' library was known far and wide to be one of the most comprehensive magical literature collections in all of the wizarding world – who wouldn't be eager to see it?

Scorpius had apparently already developed a rapport with the young assistant librarian, one Miss Clearwater, and he nodded gravely to her as he, Rose and Al entered. He wove expertly among the labyrinthine shelves, and Rose realized as she scuttled quietly behind that this must be where he had found his solace earlier in the year, for how else could he navigate these stacks so intuitively? Her theory was confirmed when the trio ran into ancient Madam Pince, still puttering about among the mustiest tomes, and the old librarian gave Scorpius a credible imitation of a smile when he greeted her politely. Rose tried to figure out if it was ironic that Draco Malfoy's son had spent more time in the library than Hermione Granger's daughter, but realized she didn't have a strong enough grasp on the concept of 'irony' to come to any valid conclusion.

The library was bigger than it looked from the outside – a physical impossibility, but magical probability – and it was some minutes before they reached a cluster of tables that looked like they had been accidentally dropped pell-mell in the middle of several intersecting aisles. Rose was surprised to see that another student had already claimed one of the isolated tables, a first-year Slytherin she vaguely remembered as "the high-pitched one who hides behind her fringe a lot in Potions." The girl looked up as she, Scorpius, and Al dropped their belongings at one of the other tables, then looked down immediately and hid behind her fringe. Scorpius looked strangely on edge; his eyes darted in the other girl's direction more than once as he took his seat. He had been sitting for only about ten seconds when he sprang up as though burned.

"I . . . I'm going to go ask Miss Clearwater if she has any resources she can recommend," he whispered rapidly before vanishing back into the stacks. Rose and Al exchanged quizzical looks and a resigned shrug that Rose felt clearly communicated her well-he's-a-strange-nutter-but-we-knew-that-going-in notion. Al nodded. By silent agreement, the cousins took out their texts and began poring over them for any tips they might be able to find that would keep them alive and not engulfed in flames during their Potions sessions.

Rose was just starting to become embroiled in her task, her quill scratching on the parchment beside her in that swift manner that suggests either a lot of information or an extraordinarily detailed doodle, when she was distracted by a loud snuffle. It had come from the other table – from fringe girl. Thinking it an isolated incident, Rose looked up briefly, then returned to her work. Yet there it was again – a loud snuffle. Or maybe a sniffle this time. And another one. And perhaps a small whimper? Rose rolled her eyes and looked up again. Yes, definitely a whimper; fringe girl was actively crying onto her parchment now. This was an incident rather without precedent for Rose. In her family, the girls cried mostly to get attention, pity, or pardon, and the boys cried only when the Chudley Cannons lost at Quidditch – which was shamefully often. What could have spurred this girl's crying in the library? Rose elbowed Al and gestured in what she hoped was a subtle manner, and her cousin's green eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of the now-loudly-sobbing girl. He looked back at Rose to mouth "What should we do?" Rose shook her head. What could they do?

It was at that moment that Scorpius chose to return. He reached their alcove breathlessly and wearing a small smile, triumphantly toting a hefty textbook. He held it like a child, cradling the rich, leather-bound pages in both hands – the book looked to be about as big as he was. Rose almost laughed at the spectacle he made, but his reappearance had the opposite effect on fringe girl. She let out a series of choking sobs as she gathered her books and rushed away, nearly knocking Rose's chair over in her furor. Al reached out and grabbed his cousin's chair to prevent her from toppling over. As she settled herself firmly back on balance, Rose could hear a vindictive hiss that sounded suspiciously like the word "traitor" from fringe girl's rapidly retreating back. Scorpius's smile vanished as he placed the book gently on the table.

"What on earth was that all about?" Al asked.

"That," said Scorpius tersely, "Was all about Azalea. As most things in her world are."

"You _know_ that girl?"

"In a manner of speaking. We've been forcedly friends since before we could talk. Her mum and my dad were mates back in their Hogwarts days."

"You're . . . friends?" Rose couldn't imagine it, even with her limited exposure to fringe girl – or rather, Azalea. She was loud where Scorpius was quiet, dramatic where he was subtle, and, from what Rose recalled of her in Potions class, not exactly the sharpest quill in the inkpot. Rose also found her habit of twitching her head so that her fringe permanently covered one eye to be disproportionately irritating. Clearly it had made an impression, as it was one of the only things she could recall about Azalea off the top of her head. Scorpius didn't exactly seem enthusiastic about their relationship either. In response to Rose's incredulity he cocked his head to the side and looked intently at the embossed gold lettering on the tome in front of him.

"We have a remarkably one-sided relationship," he said finally, "That has involved a lot of me rolling my eyes, making sympathetic noises, and listening to inane gossip about the doings of Pureblood society. Yes, I suppose we're friends."

"And yet you made her cry, and she called you a traitor," Rose observed lightly.

"Yes," Scorpius sighed, "She was a bit put out when I was Sorted into Gryffindor. We had a bit of a screaming match after that – mostly it was 'Lea screaming, mind you – and she's been giving me the Silent Treatment in a most unsilent manner ever since."

"Ah, so that's where you learned it," said Al wryly, only to be summarily ignored by Scorpius.

"You know, I thought I'd had done with it when my father started writing again, or at least signing the letters my mum writes for him, but 'Lea seems quite intent on being melodramatic for as long as witchly possible. I – I just . . . Well, it's no matter. We should get back to the books, right?" He seemed determined not to make eye contact with either Al or Rose, who didn't know quite what to make of the whole situation.

"They do seem slightly less likely to break out sobbing," Al agreed, rifling some of his pages.

"Clearly you've never been to the Restricted Section," said Scorpius, opening the ornate book he had brought more forcefully than was strictly necessary and running his finger down a random page. For someone who seemed generally unmovable and even sarcastic in the face of adversity, something about Azalea's vitriol and emotion seemed to shake Scorpius badly. He was a bit distracted for the rest of the afternoon as the trio looked up instructions and tips on Potions they thought likely to come up in class. Rose thought it might just be her imagination, right up until Scorpius accidentally turned a page so hard, he threw the book across the room. Rose and Al exchanged a glance, yet no one said a word. What was there to say?

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

So it was that between schoolwork, homework, wandwork, spellwork (well, really rather a lot of works in general), and trying to do research on this mysterious "Stone" on the side, the first few weeks at Hogwarts flew by. The situation was especially difficult as Rose was trying to do some of her own research inconspicuously – she had yet to tell Al about her Resurrection Stone hypothesis. He and Scorpius were still doing regular research in old wizarding newspapers or annals, trying to find a name that might have "Stone"-like connotations, or looking into locations that might have been referenced. Conveniently, the three of them had made a habit out of preparing for their Potions lessons extracurricularly, so they already had an excuse for their consistent presence in the library. After all, as Scorpius had so astutely noted, that was where the books were kept.

Rose forced herself into these research sessions somewhat halfheartedly, still convinced that the actual reference was to the Resurrection Stone – after all, what better to cause pain and chaos than a powerful object that most wizards thought to be merely a myth? - but unable to find many resources on the subject. In fact, the three (well, four rather) current living subject matter experts were precisely the four people she didn't want to ask – her parents, Uncle Harry, and Aunt Ginny by extension. They had seemed reticent enough in talking about the Deathly Hallows in relation to their past exploits, and Rose knew she wouldn't get any new information by suggesting her ideas to them. They would probably just tell her that the Stone was safe, and that she was being silly, of course "Stone" didn't mean that, most wizards and witches didn't think it existed, and anyway, the writer of the letter could very well have been a Muggle who had absolutely no cause to know anything at all about one of the Deathly Hallows of the wizarding world.

So Rose resigned herself to spending quite a bit more time in the library than she would have liked. The first-year Potions class met on Mondays and Wednesdays, meaning that her Sunday and Tuesday nights were library-dedicated nights, for research and preparation. The other nights, however, Rose made a point of staying in the Gryffindor Common Room. If she had to study, she could suffer through the various conversations, dodge the occasional misaimed spellwork, and patently ignore the strange bangs that consistently came from Fred, James, and Louis's dedicated corner of the room. It was obvious which corner they had claimed, as the wall hangings were more blackened than red or gold, and food from the kitchens often mysteriously appeared on the small side table stationed there (a strange coincidence that Fred loudly proclaimed to be the will of Fate; Rose had the sneaking suspicion that this phenomenon was due more to the will of Louis's wand than three mythical Greek goddesses). Rose would sit with Al and Scorpius at a small table as far from the troublemakers' corner as possible, where they were often pleasantly interrupted by Annabelle's latest joke, or Dax's pleas for homework help, or Willow's constant stream of muttering darkly sardonic comments about everyone else in the room under her breath. The Gryffindor Common Room was an unceasingly lively place, with more distractions than armchairs and cushions – as much disruption as Rose could hope for on any given night.

The Gryffindor Common Room was always good for a distraction, but so were all of the ever-present members of the extended Weasley-Potter-Lupin clan. At times, having them around was wonderful. Molly was always good for assuaging her cousins' concerns about school, and Lucy could be counted upon to listen sympathetically to any complaint, no matter how prurient. Roxanne taught them how to sneak into the kitchens the first time she ran into them after classes, and Victoire had very helpfully redirected them when they got lost on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts one day (Rose swore afterward that the staircase on the second floor normally lead to their classroom instead of straight to the Prefect's bathroom, but Al and Scorpius seemed to be convinced that she was scoping it out for her own use in later years). And then there were the times that Rose's family was like to drive her up a wall; she couldn't so much as speak to a Gryffindor boy without hearing later that Fred or Louis or James had threatened his life (well, aside from Scorpius – apparently they thought him too blonde and snarky to be much of a threat). She appreciated the sentiment, but worried that they would make her a pariah. When she told them so, their three very different faces had displayed three stunningly similar looks of confusion. After a moment of silence, Fred finally asked, "What's a pariah?" Rose gave up after that; surely they couldn't be so vigilant for her entire Hogwarts career. And so her life slipped into a routine, punctuated by difficult assignments, their first flying lesson, and James's laughter as he pulled his latest prank (which involved, unsurprisingly, an unsuspecting Al and a large amount of vanilla pudding. Perhaps the pudding was surprising, actually).

A routine had developed, and Rose was starting to think of Hogwarts as her second home, just as everyone had said she would. But only a few weeks into this new routine, Al took up Scorpius's old habit of disappearing on a fairly consistent basis. Embroiled as she was in her own work, in her research, and in watching Annabelle's almost comical efforts at avoiding the three meter radial space around Melisenda, it took Rose some time before she realized that Al's absences were regular. The first time he went missing, a Monday night, Rose assumed he had simply fallen asleep after consuming a nearly impossible amount of pie in the Great Hall that night. She knew, at least, that if she had that much sugar in her system, her subsequent crash would be rather catastrophic – Al had probably gone up to his dormitory to get his books and simply fallen asleep on his trunk. But then he was missing again on Wednesday. And when he failed to turn up in the Gryffindor Common Room the following Monday, Rose began keeping track. Interestingly, she found his absences to be clockwork-precise and pattern-predictable – he could be counted on to be missing in action only on Monday and Wednesday nights, from around six-thirty pm until ten. Scorpius seemed to make nothing at all of his absences, but they did tend to grate on Rose. Al's deficient ability to be present put a distinct strain in her nights. It turned out that she simply couldn't handle being around Scorpius without Al for a truly significant period of time; his silences irritated her, his politeness chilled her, and his sarcasm was always expected, yet still often offensive. She didn't realize it until he pulled several Houdini acts, but Al had thus far acted as a kind of buffer between them. Left to their own devices, their conversations turned sharp rapidly. They never fought, per say, but they couldn't have been said to be getting along. He was just so – so infuriatingly un-Weasley. Rose couldn't handle it, and she couldn't imagine where Al could possibly be going.

She meant to confront him about it. After all, they had been practically attached at the hip for as long as she could remember. They told each other everything: fights with James, attempts to de-mechanize Hugo's general attitude, fears about Hogwarts and Sorting, and, of course, the prank wars they shared in. This was the first time Rose could remember him ever keeping anything from her. Not that he was necessarily keeping a secret, she told herself. Surely he would tell her everything when she asked. But still, she found herself growing anxious whenever she contemplated the actual act of asking him about it. This was utterly unfamiliar territory; this was something she would have expected from Scorpius, but never from Al.

Still, being a Weasley, incurable curiosity came part and parcel with the surname. Rose felt a bit silly that she needed to gather courage just to talk to her cousin, but gather she did as she sat in the Great Hall one night in early October. She gathered more food onto her plate than she could possible anticipate eating; she gathered her napkin in her lab nervously; and she gathered her words and her wits. She was making far too much out of this, she told herself, before noticing that Al had apparently left the table while she was gathering. It was right around six-thirty, and Al was headed towards the doors, as she had expected. She told Scorpius she'd see him later and almost tripped over her robes in her hurry to catch Al up before he vanished. His robes swished with his rapid stride, only a meter in front of her, she was about to call out his name, and then –

"Hey Rose," called a nasal voice. Rose turned, utterly exasperated by the delay, to see Ezekiel Smith leaning against one of the great wooden doorframes of the Great Hall. His stance could only be described as would-be-nonchalant (he failed to actually achieve nonchalant status, due to the fact that he was still panting slightly, having apparently run to the door to purposefully situate himself in that precise spot). Rose could not imagine what he was doing. She turned to see Al disappearing around a corner, and knew she would have to hurry to catch him up now. Turning back to the round-faced boy, she smiled, bright and brittle.

"Hey Ezekiel," she said quickly. "How have you been? Haven't really seen you much since, well, since that first night on the lake. How's Slytherin treating you?"

"It's great! It's really just great, Rose." Ezekiel's face was still flushed from his run, and an overlarge smile appeared like patchy sunshine between his bouts of wheezing.

"That's wonderful. Listen, Ezekiel, this isn't really –"

"You can call me Zeke," he cut in quickly, earnestly. "If you want to, that is." His florid face seemed to be growing redder by the second, and the flush was creeping down his neck in a manner very familiar to anyone in the Weasley clan.

"Sure. Listen, Zeke, I have to – "

"We can hang out, you know," he cut her off again. Rose looked at him in confusion. "I mean, my friends, they say it's ok if, you know, we hang out sometimes. You, and me, and . . . maybe?"

"Your friends say it's ok? What does that mean?"

"Oh, it doesn't mean anything, honest, Rose! It's just, you know, I'm a Slytherin, you're a Gryffindor. I had to, you know, check with some people. But they say it's ok! We can be friends, right?"

"Um. Sure?" Rose was utterly befuddled. She took in Ezekiel – Zeke's disheveled appearance: the sheen of sweat across his wide forehead, his short brown hair tufted and matted alternately, as though he had been running his hands through it rather feverishly, his flushed skin. He looked on edge, nervous, as though he were about to take some great exam – only Rose was fairly certain that there were no exams in any of their classes yet. "Is everything all right Ez – Zeke?"

"What? Oh, of course! Everything's fine. Everything's wonderful! I just, you know, wanted to tell you. That we can, you know . . . be seen together, now. It's ok that we're friends."

" . . . Right." Rose had no idea what to make of this conversation. "Well, listen, I really do have to go, I'm supposed to be meeting Al now, and – "

"Right! Have fun with your cousin, who I'm also friends with!" Ezekiel said, beaming, his voice projecting rather loudly in the almost-empty hall. "I'll see you around, then, Rose Weasley!" And with that, he was off. He left before Rose could take her leave of him, and she stood rather bemusedly staring at the spot on the doorframe he had so recently occupied. Ezekiel Smith, she decided, might even be stranger than Scorpius. Possibly.

And for the time being, that was the last time she thought about Zeke and his odd behavior. After all, there were more pressing matters at hand. Many of them, in fact. Rose strode out of the Great Hall purposefully.

_**Author's Note:**__ Sorry for the long delay (again), but things have been a little rough for me and mine recently._

_ Thanks to all those who have been reading in the meantime, and those who have seen fit to add me to an alerts list of some kind – I love knowing that there are people out there who care about the characters I'm trying to create. I can't wait for you to find out what happens next! Special, special thanks to those of you who have reviewed – I love the feedback, and I could always use more! I take every comment into consideration, and I have definitely learned from all of my reviewers and used their comments to make the story better. So, yeah . . thanks mucho, and all of that sappy stuff _

_ As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and hopefully the next installment won't take so long. I actually sat down and planned out all of my chapters for the rest of this story, which should hypothetically make writing a quicker process in the future (i.e. less than one month per chapter), but I don't want to overestimate my abilities too much. I type REALLY slowly. Anyways, thanks for reading this far (and putting up with my rambling), and feel free shoot me a review if you happen to have the time. You know I love them, and I'll definitely respond to any questions that are in these reviews via PM _

_**P.S. **__I would like to dedicate this chapter to the memory of someone very dear to me. This person inspired smiles wherever he went, laughter wherever he passed, and love from all those around him. You will be sincerely missed, sir._

_-bbh_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8: Surprises**

_**Disclaimer: **Baking is mostly chemistry, and I think that scares people (even though chemistry is awesome). If you don't bake a lot, you see a list of ingredients and a recipe, and it all kind of looks like a complex chemistry reaction. There are all these ingredients that look really similar – flour, baking soda, baking powder, and powdered sugar come to mind – and there are many ingredients that kind of seem "magic." How many people actually know what baking soda is? Or baking powder? Or yeast? And then, all the sudden, at the end - cookies! So baking is this kind of scary mystery process. Oh no, you think, I have to get the water to exactly the right temperature before I drop the yeast in, otherwise the ENTIRE RECIPE WON'T WORK AND I'LL PROBABLY BLOW UP MY KITCHEN. Or, I have to add exactly the right amount of flour, otherwise FLOUR WILL START OOZING OUT OF MY OVEN AND TAKE OVER MY FLOOR. Those things probably aren't going to happen. If you bake a lot, you begin to understand that baking is actually fairly flexible, despite the complicated nature of the chemical interactions of the ingredients. You begin to understand what you can change about a recipe, and what it might be better to leave the same. You begin to understand that flour is flour, and water is water, but when you add them together, you get glue. And that's really cool. Fanficiton writing is, in some ways, kind of similar. I don't really understand how J.K. Rowling came up with the wonderful world of Harry Potter and co. I don't really understand my own writing process. But when I put them together, something entirely new and different comes out – this story! So I'd like to thank Ms. Rowling for allowing me to use her "ingredients" in my own story. But the recipe is mine – please keep it that way. Thanks!_

_Tl;dr this story is cookies._

Time at Hogwarts had a tendency to move strangely. Potions lessons, for example, moved excruciatingly slowly, as did History of Magic. And yet here she was, a whole week after Halloween, and Rose felt that she had only just arrived at Hogwarts. Except for the fact that she knew her way around rather better now, and hadn't gotten herself or Al lost on the way to classes once in the past week – well, that one ten-minute detour on the way to Defense didn't count. She had only been trying to avoid Peeves's spraying ink on them, and she could have sworn that doorway only sprouted ravening fangs on Thursdays.

The first Halloween at Hogwarts had, of course, been a night to remember. The Great Hall was fully decked – it looked as though the Spirit of All Hallows Eves Past had met a very messy end via explosion, and it was practically impossible to move without knocking into a jack-o-lantern, which set it cackling, which woke the bats up again, which irritated the ghoul that lived in the inexplicably large candy corn near the high table, which made many of the first-year Hufflepuffs cry. It was rather difficult to take classes seriously that day. Also, it was difficult to get food. But it almost didn't matter, because for Halloween, everyone went all out. Professor Jones had given a special class outdoors that day, rapidly constructing a maze-slash-obstacle course that she said was based on the Muggle tradition of hay-bale mazes, although Rose highly doubted that the Muggle version came equipped with two kneazles, a chatty skeleton, and talking pumpkin pie in the treasure chest at the end. Professor Flitwick had given a special demonstration on the utilization of a Freezing Charm during the Salem Witch trials, and even Professor Wistorren had his classes brewing up some delicious apple cider, instead of the usual potion. Rose thought that might be due more to the face that Rastor Rosier had accidentally vanished most of the Potions ingredients when the contents of his cauldron exploded after it had inexplicably walked itself into the supply closet, but she wasn't complaining either way. Apple cider was apple cider – and it was delicious, after all.

Still, even with all the excitement, Rose was a bit, well, disappointed. She and Al had received a flurry of letters from their parents on Halloween morning warning them that they were, under no circumstances, to go wandering about the halls later that night – even if a giant troll did manage to find its way into Hogwarts. And they were both to practice their _Wingardium Leviosa_ charm that morning, because Merlin knew they might need it.

And yet, Halloween came and went, and nothing happened. Not that Rose _wanted _anything to happen. She tried to explain herself to Al when he asked why she was so glum at the end of the day. He was still a bit high on all the sugar he had eaten that day; his smile was implacable and his hair somehow messier than usual as he gesticulated wildly at her, eyes bright.

"I don't understand, Rose. Hogwarts is amazing so far! What's got you so glum?"

"It's great, Al. It really is. But it's just . . . we're just . . . well, we're not saving the world." Seeing the dumbstruck, incredulous look Albus was giving her, she hurried to explain. "Not that I'm complaining. I don't _want_ to be expected to face a Dark Lord at the ages of 1, 11, 12, 14, 15, and 17. I don't _want _to be the subject of a prophecy that gives me a fifty-fifty chance of living a normal lifespan. I don't even want to be _friends_ with someone who has to do all that. Seems like an occupational hazard. But, at the same time . . . did you ever notice that pretty much all of the awesomeness that happened to our parents at Hogwarts happened _because_ they were trying to save the world?" Albus weighed her words carefully before he answered.

"Yeah, I guess. But, you know, being at the same school as Molly, Lucy, Victoire, Dominique, Louis, Teddy, Roxanne, Fred, James, and eventually, Hugo and Lily, is kind of _like_ a miniature Worldwide Wizarding War. I mean, it certainly hasn't left us with a dull moment so far. And if you're ever lacking for excitement, or you want to spice up your Halloween, I might recommend cutting Dominique's hair off while she's asleep. Or reminding James of the Purple Pillow Incident. Or using incorrect grammar in front of Molly. Or agreeing to shake hands with Fred. The next grand adventure's only as far as the closest family member." Al rarely strung that many serious sentences together, and he stopped now, looking almost surprised at himself. Rose laughed, her dark mood suddenly seeming to evaporate.

"Of course you're right, Al."

"With our crazy clan there, it'll never be boring for long. I'm surprised they let us all inhabit the same school, what with our . . . erm . . . interesting history at family reunions." Rose smiled, mollified. For now.

But then the restlessness returned. So what else could she do but find something to make her life interesting? After all, only a few short weeks ago, she had so many pressing matters on her mind that she didn't have time for them all. She had been checking them off her mental to-do list one by one – Al had been disappearing like clockwork because he was taking extra Defense lessons from Jones, who thought he "showed significant talent;" Scorpius had found evidence that an ex-Death Eater by the name of Peter Travers was still at large, and insisted that he needed time to himself to pursue the lead in his own way; and Azalea Selwyn and Ezekiel Smith had had the good grace to stay far away, at least from Rose, for the last few weeks – but there was still one thing that remained to her, and her alone. It had woven its way in and out of her thoughts, exciting her and terrifying her simultaneously. She felt the excitement that she always felt when she had puzzled something out that no one else knew, and yet she was terrified that she might be right. So she did what any self-respecting daughter of Hermione Granger would do – that is, she went to the library. Quietly, of course, and only on those nights when Al was in Defense lessons and Scorpius was being . . . well, off being Scorpius somewhere. No one ever saw her go, and no one saw her there (aside from Madame Pince, but it was practically impossible to avoid the old vulture, and anyways, who could she tell?).

Rose obsessively pursued any information she could find on the Resurrection Stone. Scorpius's lead was certainly interesting, though Al had been skeptical at first ("But what does Travers have to do with Stone?" "It's not his surname that matters, Al – his first name is Peter. Peter means "Stone" in Latin." "Well, that's awfully convenient, isn't it?" "Either that, or it's awfully foreboding. I'm trying to find out which."). And although she was happy to let Scorpius pursue what might actually be a promising lead, she was incurably stubborn. The Resurrection Stone, she told herself, was the far more likely answer. This connection between Peter Travers and the threatening Stone seemed tenuous at best. Plus she had come up with the Resurrection Stone idea, and wasn't she supposed to be besting Scorpius at everything?

Rose started by taking stock of what she, and the majority of the wizarding world, knew. She read "The Tale of the Three Brothers" again and again, until she could practically recite it by heart. But that was her only solid lead; after that, her research was more piecemeal. The Resurrection Stone was not as well-known as the Elder Wand, and while references to an all-powerful wand abounded in Wizard lore, the practice of necromancy – for the Resurrection Stone was nothing if not an instrument of necromancy – had an air of taboo about it. She imagined this must have been what her parents felt like trying to research Horcruxes back in their sixth year. With every vague reference she found to a stone that could bring back the dead, Rose longed to write to them even more. Dread of their reactions and doubt of her own logic held her back. She wanted to amass some semblance of evidence before she went to anyone else; even Al didn't know about her theory yet. So little by little, she built her store of knowledge, waiting for the clue that would make everything fall into place. She could feel it just beyond her reach – if she could just find the right book, the right passage, the right words – but it remained out of grasp.

She was learning quite a bit, though. Before it passed to Albus Dumbledore, and then to Uncle Harry, the Resurrection Stone had been handed generation to generation, father to son, in an old family of the name Gaunt. That much she had learned from the Feast of the Annunciation; at least it was a starting point. From there, Rose had found some arrest records of the first Gaunt to possess the Stone, one Marden Gaunt. Marden had been persecuted some four hundred years prior for witchcraft (Rose couldn't help but to think that this likely did not improve the family's view of Muggles), and the ring had been confiscated as a magical artifact at the time of his arrest. The records she encountered were wizarding records, of course, detailing how his fellows had come to Marden's aid, and how the "dark stone, set in a thicke band of golde, the pride of the familie" had almost disastrously ended up in the hands of "those who knew its power not." The recording went on to make several more vague references to the Stone's power, to the point where Rose began to suspect that there was much to the magic of the Resurrection Stone that was lost to history. Yet Marden's descendents apparently knew naught of it's power either, as no further mention of the importance of the Stone, or any record of its activity, turned up in any research into the more recent members of the Gaunt family. So Rose went farther back. She knew where the tale of the Resurrection Stone was said to have started: Cadmus Peverell. The difficulty lay in finding the path the Stone had taken from Cadmus to Marden. The trail of a ring with a fitting description – a large black stone in a heavy gold setting – went cold before Marden; Rose conjectured that perhaps Marden had been the one to have it set so. And the family records were so disorganized, bifurcated, trifurcated, and tangled, that it was almost impossible to tell who was related to whom, and how the Stone might have changed hands. Rose fell asleep one night over sheets and sheets of parchments with faintly traced family trees - her head on the Peverells, her right hand on the Slytherins, her left on the Gaunts – and awoke to find light streaming timidly through the thin windows.

She swayed carefully back towards Gryffindor Tower that morning, eternally glad that it was a Saturday as she flopped into her bed and drew the curtains tightly, trying to block out as much light as possible.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh __**_

She was woken what seemed like only minutes later. She could hear muffled noises and stirrings from her roommates, and couldn't imagine what they were doing up before noon on a Saturday. It sounded like Willow was padding around looking for a shirt that reflected both her House spirit and her personality (or, as she put it, "It has to be red and gold, but does it really have to be _red_ and _gold?_ You know what I'm saying, of course.") On the other side of the room, Annabelle was once again trying to explain Quidditch to Katie. _Quidditch_ thought Rose, still half asleep. _Quidditch_. Why was that ringing a bell? And suddenly she leapt out of bed as though she'd been hit by a stinging hex.

"Oh Merlin, the game!"

"Good of you to join the land of the waking," Willow said tonelessly. "Do you have a muted-yet-Gryffindor-colored shirt I could borrow?" Rose groaned and rubbed her eyes, which were still gummy with sleep. "I'll take that as a no, then."

"I told you, Willow, you're welcome to borrow one of mine!" Annabelle interrupted herself long enough to interject, leaving Katie momentarily hanging on what, precisely, the nature of a Bludger was. Poor Katie looked utterly bemused; clearly, even wearing all her best Gryffindor finery couldn't make the sport of Quidditch make sense. Like Willow, she didn't look terribly enthused about the upcoming game. Although, as Willow hardly ever looked enthused about anything, this was perhaps unsurprising.

"I wouldn't be caught in one of your shirts if I was _Imperius_ed, forced to bludgeon myself with a Beater's bat, and cursed to rise as an _Inferius_. For the eighth time, thank you, but no."

Annabelle didn't look the slightest bit hurt as she shook her blonde curls, fixed the sleeve on her crimson shirt (incidentally, Rose could see Willow's point – the lace-like gold trim on Annabelle's shirt was a bit much), and turned back to Katie's hopelessly incredulous expression.

Rose groaned again and tried to force her uncooperating limbs into warm clothing. In her late-night session at the library, she had completely forgotten that today would be the first Quidditch game of the season – and possibly the most important. The hype for the Gryffindor-Slytherin game had risen like some ridiculous crescendo over the past week. Since Halloween had ended, it was all anyone talked about.

For the past two years, Gryffindor's Quidditch team had been all but shameful, by everyone's accounts. They had been unbeatable in Teddy Lupin's sixth year, and many of the players from that oft-remembered team now played in various professional leagues. However, the majority were also seventh-years, with only two exceptions. This year, though, the team had passed what many Gryffindors bravely referred to as their "building phase," and word about the halls was that they might be able to give Slytherin's vicious and well-fielded team a run for their Galleons this year. It didn't hurt that the team was captained by a seventh-year Seeker named Actis Aurelion, who by general feminine consensus was possibly the most attractive male to ever grace the Quidditch pitch. And for those who didn't swing that way, there was the other remaining member of the last victorious Gryffindor team: Kimberly Ashfield, a stunningly pretty fifth-year whose "long, flowing, golden locks could only be outshone by her smile," according to Louis. Sometimes her cousin could wax poetic, in a very hackneyed, overwrought way. The team also boasted members of Rose's own family, naturally – Fred made a surprisingly reliable Keeper, and James was not-so-surprisingly a very good Beater. On the other hand, Roxanne was an equally ferocious Beater playing for Slytherin. Perhaps they would destroy each other, and then James would stop pulling her hair every time he saw her in the hallway.

With that happy thought in mind, Rose firmly banished the aching exhaustion from her limbs, her stomach, her fingers, her still-drooping eyes, and left Willow to her searching, Annabelle to her explanations, and Melisenda to whatever horrible fate she had hopefully wandered off into. She herself wandered into the Common Room in search of Al and Scorpius. If they grabbed a quick breakfast now, they'd still make it in time to get good seats for the game. And, as a first-year, good seats were essential: when you were, by default, shorter than everyone else, your only advantage was being earlier too.

Half an hour later, she was part of the beginnings of the slow trickle of students preceding the flood that would make it's way to the pitch. She and Scorpius walked unhurriedly through the browning fields on the way, kicking aside patches of leaves and watching their breath crystallize into a fine mist. Al hadn't joined them – Scorpius had said he was still asleep, but surely they could manage to save him a seat. And who was she to protest? After all, she was very well acquainted with the precise difficulty, verging on impossibility, of waking Al when he didn't want to be awakened.

"We'll see him out there, Rose," Scorpius had promised her, sharing her inclination to leave early and get a good seat on the Quidditch pitch before the crowds did their best work on the stands. Rose was wearing her best Gryffindor scarf and hat set – which happened to clash spectacularly with her hair – and she felt rather flamboyant as they picked their way to a section with several open seats. Scorpius had elected not to wear his paraphernalia, although Merlin knows his mother had sent him enough. He had opened the large package at breakfast two mornings previously. It contained not only the traditional scarf and hat, but also a set of gloves, several new ties, a pair of suspenders, and, inexplicably, a necklace with a dinner-plate-sized solid gold lion as a pendant. Scorpius had turned a heretofore-unseen shade of pink, jammed all of the items back in the box, and all but fled back to the tower. Fortunately, he had left the note from his mother on the table. It read:

_Dearest Scorpius,_

_Your father and I are, of course, supporting Slytherin in this weekend's upcoming match. However, it would be indecorous for you to do the same. Here are some Gryffindor-themed items that you might find useful. We found them in our basement; Merlin knows where they might have come from._

_Enjoy!_

_Love Always,_

_Mother._

Connor and Dax were the next to find their way to the Quidditch pitch, followed in short order by Annabelle, Willow, and Katie. Rose saw Melisenda making her way over to a group of third-year Slyterins, presumably to find her sister. The sun rose higher in the pale sky, the stands slowly filled with students in a riotous cacophony of colors, and mist burned off the field, rising slowly. Yet still Al hadn't joined them. Rose wasn't particularly worried; undoubtedly he'd slept through the noise of his roommates leaving for the match, and would arrive, breathless and frustrated that no one had awoken him, any minute.

The whistle blew. The players streamed onto the field, and Rose, squinting, finally found Al. On the field.

"Scorpius," Rose whispered to the boy next to her. She received no acknowledgement. "Scorpius," she said, louder this time. Nothing. "Scorpius!" She tried tapping him, and he shrugged his shoulder, but otherwise didn't respond. Rose was getting slightly frustrated. She put her mouth to the ear closest to her and tried again. "SCORPIUS MALFOY!"

"_Ouch!_ Bugger all, what is it, Rose?"

"Oh so you _can_ hear me?"

"Just because I was choosing to ignore you doesn't mean my ears aren't in perfect working order," he responded haughtily, rubbing his ear. "Though I'm not so sure about that anymore." Rose ignored his wounded expression.

"Scorpius, why is my cousin on the Quidditch pitch?"

"Rose, every member of your overlarge family plays Quidditch. You've chosen to be surprised by this now?"

"Not _everyone_ in the family plays Quidditch, Malfoy."

"All right, _Weasley, _who doesn't, then?"

"Well, there's Louis, for one. He's always been more likely to steal the Quaffle than to get it through a goalpost. And Dominique, who'd rather break a broomstick than her nail. Molly's never been much for dirt and sweat; she'd far rather spend her time in the library. But that's not the point! The point is that my cousin Albus Severus Potter is on the Quidditch pitch, and not because he got overexcited and tried to dive for the Snitch himself – "

"Did that actually happen?"

"Haven't you seen the recordings of the 2014 World Cup Match?"

"Well, in point of fact, I was th-"

"That's still not the point! Why is Al on a broom, wearing a Gryffindor team uniform?"

"Because he's on the team."

"What?"

"The Quidditch team."

"Pardon?"

"Quidditch. It's a sport, played on broomsticks, with seven players per team, and –"

"I know what Quidditch is, Malfoy. What do you _mean,_ he's on the team? First years aren't allowed!"

"James talked them into making an exception for him. Of course, they had no problem at all once they heard his last name. I mean, doesn't your entire family obsess over the sport?"

"No, as I've just explained not a minute ago. Louis –"

"Fine. Fair enough. You're not all Quidditch prodigies, but apparently Al is."

"But . . , but . . . what position does he even play?"

"He's a Beater."

"But James is a Beater."

"Yes. You might have noticed that there are usually two of them. Apparently, much as he and James seem to despise each other when their feet are solidly on the ground, they make a set of rather undefeatable Beaters. According to Al, at least."

"And he didn't see fit to tell me?"

"Well," Scorpius began.

"And _you_ didn't see fit to tell me? What, were you both hoping I'd not _notice_?" Scorpius coughed into his hand.

"Well," he said, louder this time. "He asked me not to say anything. There was something about nepotism, apparently. He rather thought you'd be furious that you couldn't play too." He finished in an off-handed tone, before catching the expression on Rose's face, and the rising color in her ears. "Not that you would be, of course. No, no, I told him you were much too . . . erm . . . mature and reasonable for all that, and that you'd be happy for him, and that you'd support . . . yes, that's right. Ask Al about it. I told him, I did."

" . . .Right." Rose was angry, but apparently not as angry as Al had thought she'd be. All right, maybe she did overreact from time to time, but Quidditch was decidedly Al's thing, not hers. She was competent on a broom, to be sure – she was competent at pretty much anything one could learn – but it wasn't in her blood the way it was in Al's. Truth be told, the only reason she had learned to play as a child was because he'd insisted on it. He needed a partner, he'd said, just as she'd needed someone to help her lock Hugo in the attic, and didn't he deserve just this one favor?

What he'd needed, as it turned out, was her help to break into the shed and steal Teddy's broom. The shed was appallingly easy to break into – really, whoever used a lock that could obviously be broken with a few hairpins deserved to be robbed – but the broom was surprisingly hard to fly. Yet fly they did, though not without quite a few bumps, scrapes, and cuts that they would later blame on James, to Al's unceasing satisfaction. And later, when Al wanted to go see a Quidditch match, or when he'd obsess over this team or that Seeker, Rose would humor him. It was nice to see him interested in something constructive, for a change. Eventually, she learned to like Quidditch of her own account. After all, with a father like hers and half the house decked out in Chudley Cannons gear come game day, it was hard to resist the magnetic pull of the Wizarding World's only traditional sport. Plus, going to the World Cup always provided an immense amount of fun, not the least of which was watching Grandfather Weasley trying, and failing, to light an entire box of matches. When he'd moved onto lighters two years ago, Rose's parents had quickly ushered her a safe distance away, saying only that, "If anyone could manage to turn a pocket lighter into a raging inferno, it's your Grandfather Weasley, Rosie."

In any case, Rose was what might be described as "miffed," but never "furious," that Al had lied to her about going to Quidditch practice. Speaking of which –

"So Al's not really getting extra Defense lessons from Jones." Rose realized aloud. Scorpius snorted delicately.

"Are you mad? Al? Taking extra classes?"

"Well, that's what he told me . . ."

"And you believed him?"

"Well. Yes, I suppose I did."

"You probably deserved to be lied to, then. Extra Defense lessons, I ask you . . ." and with that, Scorpius apparently became completely engrossed in the game, which had just begun. Rose sighed and tried to do the same. Men and their Quidditch. Yet, after all, she was rather interested to see James and Al working together, on the same team, and allegedly able to go a whole game without attacking each other instead of the Bludgers.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh __**_

An hour later, Rose was sure of two things: firstly, it turned out that Al and James actually made a fairly good team; secondly, it might not make a difference. Gryffindor was down by fifty points, despite their best efforts. The team simply didn't have the seamless grace that was apparent in the Slytherin team. Yet they were holding out better than they'd done in previous years, at least according to Hagrid. It was still possible for them to snatch a win – provided, of course, that they could snatch the Snitch. Rose had turned momentarily to assure Dax that, no, being down by fifty points didn't necessarily mean they were going to lose – he kept referencing a game he called "football" and looking awfully morose – when a gasp went through the stands.

"The Snitch!" Annabelle exclaimed, pointing. This would be the first time the elusive, winged ball had even made an appearance during the game. Rose squinted, skeptical at first, but Annabelle was right. There it was, winging it's way around at the opposite end of the field, headed for Slytherin's goalpost.

Both Seekers had already spotted it. Bodies flattened to their brooms, they blurred down the field in pursuit. But Slytherin's Seeker had the advantage, having already been on his team's side of the field. Actis was a superb flyer, though, and he gained slowly on the green-clad blur that Rose assumed was the Slyterin Seeker as they followed the progress of the Snitch, almost too fast to see for those in the audience. Rose held her breath, and it seemed the rest of the stadium did too. Slytherin's Seeker edged closer, and closer, reaching out his hand, grasping, grasping . . .

And two Bludgers flew out of nowhere, nearly knocking him off his broom. He was forced to stop in midair and make a sharp left to avoid having his arm broken by the heavy black balls hurtling directly towards him. And then Actis was ahead, Actis was hurtling directly behind the Snitch, Actis was reaching out his hand, grasping, grasping . . .

With a shout, he snatched the small, golden ball out of midair. The stands erupted around Rose. Actis whooped loudly and flew full-speed around the field, yelling something that sounded incredibly like "Potter! Potter!" His shouts were lost in the general tumult, though, and Rose found herself screaming with the rest. Gryffindor had _won_!

"We won! We won! Rose! We just won!" Scorpius's face had broken into an enormous grin. His arms waved wildly, and it almost looked as though he was attempting to do a little jig underneath his robes. He jumped up and down a few times for good measure, and, still shouting wordlessly, threw his arms around her. Rose was too surprised to react for a moment – this was _Scorpius Malfoy _after all – but she was too elated by Gryffindor's win to care. Much. She hugged him in return, and then they were jumping up and down together, shouting in each other's faces, joining the heaving, screaming throng of Gryffindor students as they streamed onto the pitch.

"GryffinDOR, GryffinDOR, GryffinDOR!" The shouts reverberated in the stands. Slytherins stood, muttering their displeasure, green with envy (or possibly the reflections from their robes), but no one minded their sourness. It was madness, it was chaos, it was celebration – it was victory.

Rose was carried along and carried away by the whole spectacle. Professor Jones was trying to hug Hagrid around the waist as Professor Longbottom – Uncle Neville – shook hands with Callister, clearly trying to suppress a massive grin. Annabelle and Katie were shouting themselves hoarse next to her, even though Katie had barely been able to keep up with the pace of the game, while Willow seemed to simply be drifting along with the crowd as though she had no idea how she'd ended up there. Connor McLaggen was hugging Fred, who was trying to reach his victorious cousins in the middle of the pitch, but being blocked by older, taller students. And through it all, Scorpius was next to her, shouting with the rest, his voice mingling with the throngs of Gryffindor. Looking at his flushed face, his hair tousled by the wind and by the crowd, his face cracked nearly in half with the force of his grin, Rose suddenly realized that, just perhaps, the Sorting Hat had known what it was about.

She turned to find herself face-to-face with Fred, who lifted her in a crushing hug and whooped loudly in her ear before running off to find Louis and plan the celebratory party. Katie turned to her and began chattering about Actis's amazing catch. It looked as though she was about to become the latest member of his fan club, not that Rose blamed her. Even Willow seemed to have been impressed by the seventh-year's talent. At least, she said he was, "a bearably skilled athlete who had the advantage of not being entirely hard on the eyes."

"He's dreamy," Katie sighed. "It's the hair."

"Or the intensity of his gaze," Willow added, nodding to herself.

"Perhaps I should take up Quidditch," Scorpius mused.

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"Albus! Albus Potter, you squiddley little – " They were in the Common Room, and the victory party was in full swing. Rose hadn't been able to find her cousin in the full-blown madness of the Quidditch victory aftermath, but she had tracked him down at last. He turned from what, knowing Al, must have been his tenth retelling of his incredible, daring escapades as Beater during the game. Al had never been one to minimize his own accomplishments, and Katie and Willow seemed transfixed and slightly interested, respectively – though, to his credit, Al _had_ directly contributed to Gryffindor's win. A textbook look of dismay wandered across his features, replacing animated excitement with a touch of justified pride.

"You're not going to tell me to bite my thumb again, are you, Rosie? Come on, I just helped Gryffindor win! Can't a guy get a . . ."

"It's 'I bite my thumb at you, sir,' and it's a _Shakespeare_ quote, you dolt."

"Are you mad?"

"Mad? Mad? Al, I'm furious!" Rose glared, but could only hold it for a second before a smile reconquered her face. She threw her arms around her cousin. "I'm so furious, I'm ecstatic! We won! Gryffindor won, Al! I'm furious!" she whooped.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry?" Al said, laughing and confused and hugging her back at the same time.

"Well, I'm not. You were brilliant, Al. Well and truly brilliant."

"My congratulations to you as well, Al," said Scorpius, sidling up to the little group. Katie and Willow exchanged a look before heading off in the direction of the food-laden table that had magically appeared and seemed to be magically restocking itself.

"Not half-bad for a firstie, little brother," James called out loudly as he strode over. "Just wait till Dad hears what I – I mean, we – did! He'll be so proud that I'm teaching you to follow in the footsteps of your illustrious older brother."

"That's a pretty big word for you, James," Rose said, grinning widely. James ruffled her hair.

"What can I say, cousin? I'm growing up."

"Really?" Fred had just joined them. "That's a pity."

"I make it never a point to grow up," said Louis solemnly.

"I noticed," said Al and Rose simultaneously. Louis grew indignant, in his very French way, which meant really that he huffed and sighed a lot, and ran his hands through his hair a few times.

"I'll have you know – " he began, before being overshadowed by the sudden arrival of a very perky Annabelle, who bounced into the little circle with all the flair and pep of a pygmy puff on a Pick-Me-Up potion. She was carrying a horrendously pink package that looked something like Rose's worst nightmare of a dress in box form, which she jiggled slightly, almost pirouetting in the center of the circle.

"This is for you, James," she said brightly, handing James the pink package. "From an admirer," she added in a whisper, batting her long eyelashes before spinning away. "Oh, and it's not me," she called back, as though she could feel James's puzzled stare at her back.

"Who's it from, then?" asked Louis.

"More importantly, what is it?" Fred added, bending over James's still-outstretched hand to examine the multitude of bows that frilled from the pink wrapping. James looked puzzled for a moment, but then his expression relaxed into a smirk.

"It's from Ashfield, boys," he said confidently, "And girl," he added quickly, looking at Rose.

"_Kimberly _Ashfield?" Louis said incredulously. "The fifth-year Quidditch goddess? No way, James."

"Yeah," Al agreed, looking fervently over to the corner where Kimberly was standing, talking to a tall seventh year Rose didn't know. She followed his gaze just in time to watch Kimberly touch the boy's arm and laugh quietly. "She's way out of your league, James. No way."

"I'm old for my age!" James whined. "Something I don't expect you to understand yet, little brother." James straightened up as much as he could so that he could look down his long nose at Al.

"Oh, shove it," Fred said, looking slightly red in the face – probably from an excess of sugar and butterbeer. "You're thirteen. You're not even old enough to have hormones yet."

"But I'm old enough to interest Ashfield. Hence, the box."

"Well, what is it, then? What did the great Kimberly Ashfield send to my ickle cousin?" Fred asked, prodding said box with a long, freckled finger.

"Something of an adult nature, I'm sure," James said importantly. "Not fit for young eyes like those of my brother. And Rose, too, for that matter. And you, Scor – " James began to say, before catching Scorpius's raised eyebrow and stopping mid-sentence. It was incredible that the boy could convey so much muted hostility with so little expression. It was truly an art.

"I didn't want to see what was in the box anyways," said Rose. She grabbed Al's and Scorpius's elbows and began steering them away. She could hear the sounds of paper being torn behind her, and knew that a thousand sparkling bows were meeting their dooms at James's clumsy hands. And then there was an explosion.

"Bloody h-" James started, but there was a wet smacking sound, and his voice cut off suddenly. "Oy, what was that for?"

"You git, look at me! Look at you! What on earth . . .?"

"Mmmmm, strawberry," said Louis, and at that, Rose had to turn back around. She took in the freshly altered scene that she had left not more than a minute ago, and almost fell over from laughter. Al was shaking with mirth in his robes beside her, the two of them supporting each other to avoid ending up in a messy, hysterical pile on the Common Room floor. For once, even Scorpius had no words. For in front of her stood James and Fred, covered head to toe in what looked like ice cream – strawberry ice cream, apparently, from Louis's earlier observation. They looked as though they had been caught in a very miniaturized flash-flood-slash-downpour; covered head to toe in light pink, partially melting, strawberry-flecked ice cream. Louis, who had somehow avoided the deluge, was standing only a foot away, grinning widely at his cousins' dilemma. The box lay open on the floor, still slowly oozing remnants.

"Bloody hell," James swore. "It's Victoire. It has to be."

"Victoire?" Fred asked, holding up his drenched sleeves with a shocked look generally associated with those who have just survived serious trauma.

"She's had it out for me all year, I swear."

"Though, of course, you never deserved it, _non_?" Louis said, raising his eyebrows.

"I didn't _deserve_ to have my hair turned pink for three days; I didn't _deserve _the thousands of pink butterflies that followed me around during Quidditch practice, and I definitely didn't _deserve_ to be drenched in strawberry ice cream. I don't know what I _did_!"

"Aside from ratting her and Teddy out to the entire family?"

"Well, yes, there was that. But that was a whole two months ago!"

"Well, that's Victoire," said Louis, shaking his head. "_Ma soeur_ can hold a grudge like no one I know. And strawberry ice cream is kind of her trademark, _savez_? She's never been able to conjure any other flavor."

"Great, well now it's all over me, as well as James," Fred said, holding his arms away from his body. "Eurgh. Ashfield, my _arse_, you prat."

"We should get this off," James decided, shaking his head slightly. Droplets of strawberry ice cream splattered over all the nearest surfaces. "Why don't we try that spell I just learned. _Ivanessa? Arvaneskoo?_ Hold on, that's not it . . ."

Knowing she should be as far away as possible when James was experimenting with spells, Rose recovered from her laughing fit enough to drag Al and Scorpius to a sufficiently safe location.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh __**_

Much, much later – thank goodness it was a weekend – Rose headed up to her dormitory. She could still feel her cheeks aching from all the smiling she'd been doing, but couldn't stop herself, even as she yawned widely. Eyes heavy, she pushed open the door to the room and dragged her feet across the floor. She tried to be as quiet as possible as she changed and got herself ready for bed – Katie, Willow, and Annabelle had gone to bed hours ago. Quietly, she changed into her bedclothes. Silently, she padded across the floor to wash up. Noiselessly, she pulled back the curtains around her bed . . .

And gasped, loudly, all symptoms of exhaustion vanished in an instant.

Someone had been here. Someone had left, on her pillow, a top hat, of all things. With a small bouquet of tissue-paper flowers, tied with a red ribbon inside. In the moonlight, Rose could see strange markings on the ribbon. She lit up the tip of her wand with a simple _Lumos_, untied the ribbon carefully, and felt it spool through her fingers smoothly as she read the flowing writing.

_Roses are red; Would your family be blue?_

What, in Merlin's name . . .?

**Author's Note:** For purposes of clarification, I'm going to save you some confusion and Googling sessions. The name "Peter," as in Peter Travers, comes from the Latin root "petra," meaning "stone." Ms. Rowling never bothered to give this character, introduced in GoF, a first name, which gave me some convenient leeway. So there's that. And now moving on.

Thank you for reading this story, especially if you are a new reader. I think it's probably getting kind of daunting to start reading a story of this length, and I appreciate you giving it, and me, a chance. Thank you to those of you who have put my on any alerts or favorites lists – I'm so glad you've enjoyed this thus far! And thanks especially to those of you who review/have reviewed/ will review (hint hint)! I love your words of encouragement, I read all reviews carefully, I will respond to questions via PM, and I will certainly take any constructive criticism into account. Phew, that was a mouthful!

All that said, we are now embarking on what might be called the "rising action" section of this story. Officially. Woo! So get excited! But don't actually, you know, cheer at the computer screen or anything. That might be awkward.

I hope you're having a wonderful November! Hopefully I'll manage to update before the end of the month . . . (Procrastinators unite . . . TOMORROW!)

-bbh


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 9: Messages**

_**Disclaimer:**__ The holidays are just around the corner (actually, one of them is already here, I do believe – Happy Chanukah if that's your shpiel!) and you know what that means for all the little boys and girls who have been good this year – presents! Yes, call it commercialized, complain that the meaning and the reason have been taken out of the season, complain that they start playing Christmas music on the radio waaayyyyy too early (which they do); you cannot deny that you like presents. Everyone likes presents, especially when you don't have to __**do **__anything – you get them just because! Presents are great; gratuitous presents are magnificent. They become more wonderful the more grown up you get, in fact. I get __**so much more excited**__ when I get fuzzy socks at my age than I ever did getting a new stuffed animal at the age of five. And you know why? Because fuzzy socks are awesome, that's why. _

_But do you all know what happens when one person takes another's work, and doesn't give them any credit? Do you? I bet you don't. Here's what happens: every time somebody plagiarizes, a present somewhere explodes. Yes, it's true. Tragic, scientifically implausible, a little bit hilarious, and true. _

_So I'm going to let you all off the hook right now, so that none of you end up with gift wrapping blown to smithereens all over your nice carpeting: Harry Potter and Co. do not belong to me. They belong to J.K. Rowling, and she doesn't like it when presents explode either. _

_Also, quick note: if you haven't read the previous chapter in a while, it might behoove you to go back and reread just the last part. For context and all. _

_Happy Holidays everyone, and enjoy!_

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

"_That I know where you sleep; your cousin and you._ That's what it said on the ribbon. Or, well, that's what Scorpius says it probably said. The rabbit ate part of the ribbon, so it really said 'Hat I know ere you leep; your cousin and y.' I was very confused at first, because we don't have a cousin Andy. And also because somebody had put a hat on top of a live rabbit and left it on my pillow, of course."

"_Roses are red_

_Would your family be blue?_

_That I know where you sleep_

_Your cousin and you_." Rose recited, repeating the odd quatrain once again. It was long after-hours in the Gryffindor Common Room, and the room was filled with the half-remembered glow of the dying fire. Licks of flame still spurted from the glowing embers, lengthening the shadows of tables, chairs, and forlorn-looking streamers left over from the post-Quidditch victory party.

Upon finding the mysterious message on her pillow, Rose had done the first thing she could think of – that is, she had snuck into Al's room. Or, at least, she had started to walk up the stairs, only to have Al himself barrel into her on his way down, clutching a shredded-looking ribbon and an oddly frantic rabbit to his chest. Scorpius had followed only a short way behind, apparently drawn to the quietly chaotic commotion.

As she sat against the legs of one of the many chairs and repeated the verse, trying to find some hidden meaning, Rose's hushed tones seemed to rise and fall with the firelight. She shivered.

"That's rather ominous," Scorpius said off-handedly.

"Thanks for the insight," Rose said grimly, her mouth set.

"It's from the same person who sent the letters to our parents, isn't it?" Al asked, trying to balance both top hats on his head at the same time.

"That does seem likely," Rose agreed.

"We should probably show this to a Professor or something," Al said. The hats wobbled querulously.

"We should," Rose agreed.

"We should," Scorpius echoed. There was a momentary silence in their little corner as all three exchanged looks.

"We're not going to, are we?" Scorpius sighed, sounding resigned.

"Probably not," said Rose.

"Under no circumstances," Al said. The hats fell off as though to emphasize his point.

"We can figure it out ourselves," Rose continued stubbornly. "We just have to consider – "

"Is there a particular _reason_," Scorpius broke in, "That your entire family is affected by an exceptionally virulent strain of Hero Complex? Is it a heritable trait?"

"Mum calls it a 'Saving People Thing,'" Rose said, smiling fondly. "Usually right after Dad's come back with his eyebrows singed off or half a toe missing again. He usually turns out fine in the end."

"It's just something we have to do. It's a Weasley-Potter-Lupin thing," Al explained.

"Wonderful. Now give me a moment to counter your argument of 'I have to do this, because I'm genetically predisposed towards courageous displays of stupidity.' Let me begin by pointing out that your father is an Auror, Rose, while Al's father is the Head of the Auror Department. Let me further continue to state the obvious by asserting that we are eleven-year-olds with less than a year's worth of magical training between us. Our skills extend as far as the ability to float feathers through the air and brew exceptional apple cider. On the other hand, whoever delivered those lines to you broke into a _one thousand _year old magical fortress – which, mind you, was last breached during a full-on attack by _all of You-Know-Who's forces combined – _hoodwinked the magical guardian of Gryffindor Tower, and to top it all off, managed to get into both the boys' and girls' dormitories and find _your_ beds among everyone else's. This same person then delivered a message that says in no uncertain terms that they can get to you while you're asleep. And your master plan is to figure it out for yourselves? Are you mad?"

"I'm not _mad_," Rose said huffily. "I just don't think we have anything to show anyone. We've got no proof."

"What do you mean, no proof?" Scorpius exclaimed, grabbing the half-chewed ribbon and waving it in Rose's face.

"Look at what we've got, Scorpius: two ribbon fragments with some vaguely strange, half-chewed children's poem, two black top hats, a rabbit that's since escaped, and a bundle of paper flowers. This could have been a prank pulled by another Gryffindor just as easily as it could be a message from Stone."

"It wasn't, though."

"How do you know that? We haven't even considered the option."

"But you think it was Stone," Al put in. "Right?"

"Of course _I _do. But if we show this to a professor, we're more likely to get Melisenda Wilkes in trouble than we are to get any useful results." Rose stopped and thought for a moment. "Actually, that might not be a bad thing. She did tell me I looked like a blast-ended skrewt got a hold of my hair the other day in Herbology . . ."

"A _what?_" Al's face was contorted as he mouthed the words 'blast-ended' to himself.

"This is neither the time nor the place for a vendetta against Melisenda," said Scorpius. "No matter how much she may deserve it. And you may be right; without knowing about the initial letters, this doesn't seem nearly as worrying." He picked up one of the hats from where it had fallen and began twirling it in his hands idly.

"And I was just starting to think it might be a good idea to get Uncle Neville involved." Rose sighed dramatically and grinned, feeling that she may have won on this point. She wanted to drive the message home. "But, after all, we've got no real _proof_ that this was our mysterious Stone, so –"

"Actually," said Scorpius quietly. "I rather think we do." He had stopped twirling the hat with a somewhat shell-shocked expression on his pointed face. His hair swung forward into his eyes as he tipped the hat close to the light from the dying fire. Rose and Al crept closer to see what he was indicating. It took Rose a moment to find it; once she did, it was the only thing she could see. Written around the ribbon lining, repeated over and over again in handwriting that was at once childish and somehow elegant, were the words, "Hey diddle diddle."

Al looked at the hat for a long time, his hands stilled for once in his lap. He looked at Rose, who seemed, for once, at a loss for words, and at Scorpius, who looked expectant. Al understood that it might not be the best idea to tell a professor, or even Headmistress Sprout, but . . .

"I think it's time we talked to our parents," he said. Rose hesitated, then nodded once in agreement.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

It was certainly easier said than done – the tangled web this year had woven had left them in a logistical labyrinth. Their best option, as far as Rose could see, would have to be a Floo call with her father.

They had a fire – that part was easy. The fireplace in Gryffindor Tower was kept aflame at all hours by the not-so-famous House Elves who kept the entire castle running. The most obvious time to talk would be during the day, when most students were in classes or holding impromptu snowball fights on the grounds; however, the fact that Rose, Al, and Scorpius were among said students rather complicated things. So it would have to be nighttime. But what guarantee would they have that they would be alone, undisturbed, long enough to hold an unobserved conversation with a fireplace? The only possible solution, as Rose saw it, was to hold the rendezvous late enough that the likelihood of their being interrupted approached zero. And so, by process of elimination, the trio decided upon the next Thursday night after Professor Sinistra's late-night lesson. Most of their peers would trundle off to bed immediately afterwards, rubbing gummed eyes and complaining about having to get up early for Defense the following day, which would leave the Common Room conveniently deserted. A hastily scrawled letter to Rose's father set the date, and then all there was to do was wait.

So they did.

"If I fall asleep before it's time, just pinch me, ok?" Al grumbled, rubbing his eyes vigorously. Rose reached over and obliged; Al yelped. "I said _if!_ _If_ I fall asleep!"

"I was taking preventative measures," Rose said, folding her hands in a saintly manner.

"Was hiding me behind the sofa a preventative measure?" Scorpius asked, his voice muffled by several layers of chintz and upholstery.

"Yes," said Rose, "It's so that my father doesn't lose focus and ramble on about how I'm not to marry a pureblood again."

"I see. Does he do that a lot?"

"Only when you're around, Malfoy."

"I'm honored."

"Hush! I think that's him!" Rose leaned forward, almost crouching over her knees. Next to her, Al shook his head vigorously back and forth before seemingly regaining his focus. The cousins stared intently at the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, from whence emanated a slight popping noise. Ron Weasley's head appeared in the midst of the flames, his hair almost blending with the tongues of fire that appeared to be on the verge of singeing his face.

"Hi Rosie, Al," he said quietly. "I can only talk for a few moments – I told your mother I'd be up to bed before two."

"This shouldn't take long," Rose said. "We just thought we should show you something that we found in our rooms this past Saturday."

"It seemed like something you and my Dad would like to know," Al put in. "Only I can't really tell him, because . . . well, you'll see."

Rose pulled out the ribbons, the top hats, and the bunch of paper flowers, which were looking sadly crumpled at this point. The rabbit had, of course, escaped somewhere within Gryffindor Tower. Al claimed to have heard it snuffling at his curtains a few times over the last several nights, but all of their attempts to find the poor creature had, thus far, been resoundingly unsuccessful.

Rose and Al began to explain how they had returned to their respective dormitories after the post-Quidditch victory party, only to find these objects adorning their pillows. How the messages, separated as they had been, had seemed innocuous – nonsensical almost. And yet, when they were united, the meaning became sinister. How they had noticed the "Hey diddle diddle," scrolling around the edges of both hats (though they conveniently left out Scorpius's role in all of this).

Rose was ever conscious of the fact that the blond boy was crouched behind the very sofa she was sitting on. He had, of course, not insisted on being present – that wasn't his _modus operendi_. He had remained silent as she and Al planned their rendezvous with Rose's father. He had made no comment as they had discussed whether or not to tell Al's father, before ultimately deciding that talking to Rose's father alone would cause the fewest problems for everyone involved. After all, none of them were even supposed to know about the 'Hey Diddle Diddle' Letters in the first place. And Scorpius had held his tongue as they planned the meeting for a school night, though, to be fair, Rose probably had more of an issue with the scheduling than he. And though he had not made a sound throughout the entire planning process, he was always, always _there_. Rose, Al, and Scorpius seemed to be an inseparable trio now, whether Rose liked it or not. And so it had apparently been taken for granted that Scorpius needed to hear Rose and Al's conversation with Rose's father. Rose had never taken it for granted, of course, but somebody must have, because here they were on a Thursday night at nearly two o'clock in the morning – she and Al, hunkered on the large sofa, talking to the fireplace, and Scorpius, crouched uncomfortably behind said sofa. And Ron Weasley's head, talking from the fireplace. They would have looked a strange sight indeed, had anyone else been there to see them.

Rose's father listened, not impassively, because that would have been impossible, but at least silently, as Rose and Al pieced together their entire story. It didn't take too much time – aside from when Ron asked Al to repeat the story of Gryffindor's Quidditch victory just once more, smiling beatifically. When they had finished, his usually cheerful face was solemn, his mouth a thin line, and his brows almost – _almost_ – furrowed. His mobile features managed to look disapproving, worried, and slightly singed, all at once. No one spoke for a long moment. Rose could almost hear Scorpius's steady breathing behind her, and thought for a moment that he might have fallen asleep. That is, until she felt him elbow her (accidentally, of course) through the back of the sofa.

"What do you think, Dad?" Rose asked. Scorpius may not have intended it, but the sharp poke to her back galvanized her into speech.

"I think," Ron began, then almost immediately stopped. He puffed his cheeks and let out a long sigh. "I think this is all very strange."

"You think it's the same person too, though, right?" Al asked, as if he needed one more confirmation.

"I think, given what you found, that's probably so."

"But _who? _And what do they want?" Rose asked, her voice wobbling for the first time in a betrayal of the trepidation she actually felt. Somehow, having her father here made it much easier to realize that she was actually afraid.

"We're still not sure," said Ron wearily. "And not for lack of trying."

"What I don't understand," Al said loudly before Rose shushed him frantically. "What I don't understand," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, "Is if this person is trying to hurt us, why give us a warning?"

"What do you mean?" Rose asked, confused. "A warning? It's more like a threat."

"Well, yes," said Al, "But if you really wanted to kidnap or harm someone while they're in a place as safe as Hogwarts, wouldn't you just . . . do it? Why would this Stone person go through all the trouble of breaking into the school just to plant _another_ weird letter? What's the point?"

"My thoughts exactly," Ron responded grimly. His expression quickly turned to shock, though. "Hold on, I think that's your mother. I'll write you –" and he was gone. The fire died rapidly in his absence, and Rose and Al were left staring at a bed of glimmering, inanimate coals.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

**Dear Rosie, **

** Don't worry, your mother didn't catch me. I told her I had dropped my wedding ring, and it rolled into the fireplace, and of course I was willing to risk life, limb (or head, rather), and all the soot in Ottery-St.-Catchpole to get it back. You might imagine that that story put to rest any suspicions Mum might have had upon finding me with my head in the fireplace. Who says that she always has to be the smart one?**

** More importantly, though, thank you for telling me about the note you and Al got. You've already proven to be much, much smarter than your Uncle Harry and I were at your age. Speaking of Uncle Harry, would you be able to send us a few of the things you and Al found? We think some of the know-it-alls over in the Forensis Magice Department might be able to look at them and work their magic. That was kind of funny, wasn't it?**

** But maybe this isn't the right time for joking. You and Al must be pretty worried, but I think Al brought up a very good point. Clearly there is someone out there who, for a reason we've not been able to find yet, has some less-than-noble intentions towards the two of you. I think that's pretty obvious. But what's also obvious is that this person is having some difficulty getting to you. Or else, as Al said, why isn't he **_**doing **_**something instead of just sending strange letters? Maybe once we're able to look at the new message, we'll be able to figure something out. In the meantime, though, I still think you'll be safe at Hogwarts. Just remember: keep safe, and don't do anything I wouldn't do. Actually, don't do a lot of things I **_**would**_** do. Just be smart, Rosie. We'll figure this out. **

** And speaking of, Al said something over the Floo about "this Stone person," right? Which leads me to believe that you and your cousin have been getting into some investigation, or at least speculation, on your own. I'm not going to tell you to stop. I'm just going to say that, right now, we're probably looking down the same path as you two are. So keep me posted about anything interesting, all right, Rosie?**

** I love you, your mother loves you, and I'm certain your brother loves you, even though he continues to deny it under oath. We'll see you soon for Christmas! **

**Love, **

** Dad**

"So what this means," Scorpius said, putting the parchment down with a flick of his wrist and a shake of his head, "Is that they don't know anything, either."

"No – " Al began defensively.

"Yes." Rose said definitively.

"Well – " said Al.

"As far as we're concerned," Rose said in a distinctly declarative tone, "That means it's still up to us."

"Not really," Scorpius said dismissively. Rose glared. Al looked skeptical. "But I suppose we should still keep looking."

"Speaking of," Rose replied. "Found anything new on Peter Travers?"

"My research is still in progress," said Scorpius, and refused to elaborate.

Rose didn't press, reasoning that Scorpius's research was probably of a somewhat sensitive nature. She also knew that he owed it to her to share whatever information he did manage to find, given what she'd shared with him. And she fully intended to play her _quid pro quo_ card if it became necessary. Al, on the other hand, seemed to have been well and truly jarred by this latest message. Perhaps he hadn't fully realized the gravity of the situation before. Perhaps he was tweaked by the ease with which their mysterious correspondent had bypassed all the security measures present at Hogwarts. Or perhaps the fact that this message had been delivered directly to him, as opposed to his parents, made the incident more concrete – more personal. Whatever the case, Al became obsessed with finding out more.

Albus Potter was many things, but "born researcher" was not one of them. His preferred method of investigation, once his fixation started, was asking Rose and Scorpius what they had found. Rose was still reluctant to share her hypothesis about the Resurrection Stone; the evidence was tenuous, at best. However, this latest message had enforced in her mind the idea that the "Stone" in the letters was not a person. After all, neither message had any sort of signature indicating a "Stone" in any way, and this last message mentioned no Stone at all. When pressed, she told Al that she thought Scorpius was flying the wrong way down the pitch – the evidence pointed to Stone being some sort of object or place, not a person. Al listened as she spoke, didn't retain a word of what she had said, and went straight to Scorpius to ask him if there was anything new about Peter Travers. Scorpius, in turn, was rather too busy being screamed at by Azalea Selwyn to pay attention ("How dare you be seen around those . . . those . . . _them_!" "We're in the same House, Azalea. How could I not be seen around them?" "But you're around them _all the time!_" "And your insufferable inanity is around _you_ all the time." "What?" "Never mind, Azalea, never mind. Just keep yelling if it will make you feel better.")

In the meantime, Rose redoubled her efforts at researching the Resurrection Stone. Since she hadn't had much success in tracking it through the somewhat sordid history of the Gaunt family, she began searching deeper into the Peverells. She reasoned that, whatever power the Stone might possess, the supposed inventor – or original owner, if you believed all that poppycock about a meeting with Death – had surely discovered. Where better to start than at the source? So it was Cadmus Peverell she next set her sights on. Unfortunately, he was turning out to be almost as slippery as his brother Ignotus, who had, at least according to legend, managed to evade Death itself. Rose's thorough searches of the Very Long Ago section of the library turned up next to nothing. Cadmus had not kept a diary, or a journal, or whatever men from several centuries ago preferred to call them. Small matter, Rose had hardly expected to be so lucky. She found most of the information she could glean in the footnotes of the two history books dedicated to the brief but blazing career of his elder brother, Antioch.

Cadmus had married young, but Rose knew how that story ended: Harmonia Peverell had died, tragically, in childbirth, leaving hardly any record of her passage through the medieval world. Cadmus had joined her in death not many years later, and their son was practically a nonentity as far as history was concerned. Rose didn't pursue his story too actively, poor thing, as he'd probably not known more of the Resurrection Stone than his father. His name wasn't even recorded; Ernesettle's _Storie of a Wizard Moste Feered_, page 526, footnote 4 simply read, "As for the sonne, not long it was after his noble fathers demise ere he founde a new abode with a familie dedicated to the arte of magicallie fashioning faience," whatever that meant. Nowhere was there mention of the Resurrection Stone. Presumably it had passed to this unnamed son after Cadmus's death, but such an event was not recorded. Rose was finding it more and more difficult to pursue the Resurrection Stone through history when the trail was so tenuous as to be non-existent.

And if the trail was non-existent, did that mean that the Resurrection Stone was, for lack of a better word, safe? After all, the Elder Wand blitzed a trail of blood, glory, and mayhem from Antioch to Voldemort. It cropped up stories of grand battles, of harrowing duels, of events that changed the course of the Wizarding World. It even cropped up in a few old songs – which were unambiguously horrible (medieval wizards, as it turned out, should have left the rhyming to the Sorting Hat). Did the Resurrection Stone's comparative silence in the pages of Wizarding history mean that it was of lesser importance? Less potency? Rose grew more and more unsure as the days passed and her researches continued to return almost negligible results.

It didn't help that Hogwarts felt very, well, _safe_ right now. Yes, someone had broken into her room and left a strange message on her bed. That was difficult to forget, and Rose had by no means done so. But Hogwarts was rapidly becoming overlaid with that sticky, intangible, almost overpowering substance known as "Christmas Cheer," and that made it very easy to forget that anything could be wrong – ever. The halls were decked, the fires aglow, the cider spiced at every meal, and even the portraits had gotten into the spirit – though most of them probably should have refrained from singing Christmas Carols off-key during classes. Professor Jones had to cast a silencing charm on the entire room to drown out one brave knight's lusty rendition of "Silent Night" ("If only Sir Cadogan could allow us a 'Silent Day,'" she had muttered as she cast the charm around the borders of her classroom). There was also the fact that Albus had very reasonably pointed out: if whoever was sending these messages was able to do them harm, wouldn't they have done so already? What kind of nefarious mind would go through all the effort of breaking into Hogwarts only to cause no actual harm – unless in fact they were _unable _to cause actual harm? That was the most likely scenario, Rose told herself. Something in the makeup of Hogwarts itself was protecting her, and that was a comfort indeed.

Sometimes, it seemed to Rose that she only continued her researches for two reasons: firstly, because Al continued to ask, almost constantly, what she had found, and she would have loved to show him something that could potentially represent a breakthrough; and secondly, because she really, really wanted to be more right than Scorpius.

As it turned out, she needn't have worried.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

"It wasn't Peter Travers," Scorpius announced over breakfast one morning, seemingly out of the blue. He then proceeded to pour himself a cup of tea, clasp his fingers tightly around it and lean forward, trying to get as close to its warmth as possible. It wasn't any colder in the Great Hall than it had been in September, but the heavy clouds above their heads, the snowflakes gently floating from said clouds, and the fact that the grounds had been covered in snow for the past two weeks made the mornings seem much frostier. Al and Rose had chosen to sit at the very end of Gryffindor's table, as it provided more room for Rose to do the work she'd been unable to complete due to her other researches. Scorpius had taken the seat across from Rose, and was glancing up casually every other second or so, presumably to see if his revelation had provoked any response. Al yawned; one could never expect him to be quick on the uptake in the mornings.

"Mmmmm," Rose agreed, not entirely paying attention. This Transfiguration assignment was due in five hours, and it was driving her up the wall. If she could only understand _how, _exactly, the transformation worked in a solid state . . .

"How do you know?" Al asked.

"I just do."

"Yes, but how?"

"I have my sources."

"What are they?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Then how can we know that you're right?"

"You can take my word for it." Al huffed and sat back in his chair.

"Rose, Scorpius is being expansive," Al whined. Rose finally looked up from her paper and scratched her nose with the end of her quill.

"He's talking too much, or he's taking over your side of the table?"

"What?"

"He means 'evasive'," Scorpius clarified.

"That does sound much more like you."

"Thanks ever so."

"What are you being evasive about?"

"He won't tell us how he knows that Travers isn't Stone," Al broke in.

"Because I was asked not to!" Scorpius exclaimed, looking wounded. Rose cocked her head to the side and looked at him for a moment. He met her penetrating gaze square on, his expression mild. Rose could swear he was goading her. Al was still looking very indignant next to him.

"His father told him, Al," Rose said after a minute of contemplation. Scorpius made no effort to confirm or deny her fairly educated conjecture, which she took to mean she was probably right. "Now can I get back to my work?"

"No!" Al exclaimed. "First off, Peter Travers was our best idea as to who's leaving these really, really strange messages that are also incredibly creepy, mildly threatening, and directed at you and me, Rose, so I think you'd show a bit more concern now that we're lead-less. And secondly, no one's seen or heard from Peter Travers since, well, since at least two decades ago. How does your father know he's really dead, Scorpius?"

"Because he's seen Travers's grave. And if you'd really like proof, I can show it to you." Al's mouth opened and closed a couple of times.

"If Travers was buried," Rose began into the silence that Scorpius's comment had produced, "Wouldn't there be some sort of record? Why didn't anyone know he was dead?"

"It's complicated," Scorpius replied.

"So's a Hovering Charm, and I've got that well covered. Try me." Rose sat back and folded her arms. She didn't know it, but she looked mildly ridiculous due to the large ink smear on the side of her nose. Al folded his arms too, and tried to glare and look intelligent at the same time. Far from quailing in the face of such a double threat, Scorpius instead sighed resignedly.

"I went to my father when I discovered that there had been a Death Eater named Peter Travers –"

"I thought you weren't allowed to tell us that," Al remarked.

"I didn't; Rose figured it out. My promise obligated me not to tell you," Scorpius continued, grinning. "I never said I wouldn't talk about it once you'd figured it out."

"But you had to have known that Rose would figure – ahhhhhh, I see now."

"That's pretty twisted logic for a Gryffindor, Malfoy," Rose remarked innocently.

Scorpius made no acknowledgement that she had spoken, save for what might have been the beginnings of a smile, quickly smothered. He continued with his story.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

"How did you come to hear that particular name, Scorpius?" Now that he thought about it, Scorpius didn't really have a valid excuse for his curiosity about one particular Death Eater. Thinking quickly, he went with the standby that any student anywhere can use in these potentially awkward scenarios.

"I heard the name in a class one time." Scorpius could only see his father's head. Inspired by Rose and Al's successful conversation with Mr. Weasley, Scorpius had decided to employ a similar tactic to have a rather sensitive discussion with his own father via the Floo network. The hour was, of course, extraordinarily inconvenient, and Scorpius's father had balked at the idea that any part of his body might have to enter the Gryffindor Common Room, but Scorpius had known exactly what to say to convince him. He also knew that, had Draco's body been visible at this moment, his arms would have been folded. He had that kind of expression on his normally immobile face.

"Which class?"

"I . . . I can't recall at the moment."

"Interesting. And who are your professors this year, again?"

"Well, there's Professor Jones – Defense; Professor Longbottom – Herbology; Professor Flitwick – Charms, of course; Professor Callister – Trans –"

"Caligula Callister?"

"I believe so, Father."

"Ah."

"You know him?"

"He was a year behind me in school," Draco said impassively. "We crossed paths occasionally, you might say."

"And he knew Peter Travers, too?"

"Ye – well, no. Well, actually . . . Scorpius, you've learned how to keep a secret, correct?"

"Yes, Father," Scorpius replied, trying not to roll his eyes. "Since the age of two, when you told me that I couldn't tell strangers my last name," he almost added, but refrained.

"I would . . . strongly request, then, that you not tell anyone where you got the information I'm about to tell you."

"I'll do my level best."

"I would appreciate it." Draco sighed, and, if he could have, would probably have pinched the bridge of his nose. Like father, like son. He continued, "Scorpius, Peter Travers is dead. He was murdered quite some time ago, and yet if you've been researching his whereabouts, which you must have done before coming to me, because you're much more thorough than I ever was at your age, you will have found that he's listed simply as 'missing.' Fewer than five people alive know about his death, and I think it would be safe to say that none of them want it to become general knowledge. He lies in a grave that is, in fact, quite a ways into the Forbidden Forest."

"How did he die?"

"He was killed."

"By who?"

"By _whom_, Scorpius. By _whom."_

"By whom, Father?"

"I think it would be better if you didn't know that."

"What does any of this have to do with Callister?"

"I think it would be better if you didn't know that."

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

"That's all?" Rose asked.

"Essentially. Father told me where the grave is, told me to go see it for myself if I wanted proof, but I couldn't get any more out of him about Travers's actual death. Not even when it happened." There was silence around the table as Rose and Al took in what they had just heard. Finally, Rose looked round the table.

"You know what this means, right?" she asked solemnly.

"Callister killed Travers," Scorpius replied immediately. "Yes, I thought the same thing."

"Callister ki . . . oh, Merlin," Al said weakly. His fork hovered over some uneaten eggs, until he looked at them queasily and pushed them around his plate. "Do we have to go to Transfiguration today?"

"We can't skive off!" Rose said, looking deeply offended. "Well, only for something really important."

"What, and finding out your professor is a murderer isn't –"

"Do I hear my younger cousins planning to skive off class?" Fred cried jovially, sitting down and helping himself to some toast. "For shame!"

"I skived my first class in October of first year," Louis added. "You lot are running a bit late, no?"

"What're you skiving off for anyways?" Fred asked, perhaps noting the serious expression on Rose's face and the slightly nauseated look Al was sporting.

"We're not!" Rose said hurriedly. "It was just a hypothetical."

"That word is bigger than Malfoy!" James laughed and patted a very unamused Scorpius on the back.

"Yes, well," Rose said, standing up and yanking Al up by the elbow, "We really ought to be going to class now. Wouldn't want to be late!"

"Let us know when you're planning to actually have some fun!" James called at their retreated backs.

"We've got lots of ideas we'd be willing to give you!" Fred added. "For a price, of course."

Smiling wanly, Scorpius excused himself as well. He caught up with Rose and Al a few steps later, in time to hear Rose muttering some imprecation against her cousins – not, in fact, for encouraging them to skive off, but rather because they had the gall to offer Rose and Al – _Rose and Al _- tips about having fun. Rose _was_ having fun, she fumed furiously. She was _great_ at having fun. She was _having so much fun_, that –

"All right, Rose, we get it. You're the Queen of Fun. Now can you stop dragging me down the corridor? Your nails are digging into my arm." Rose muttered again – a somewhat abashed apology to Al this time.

"Hey Rose!" The voice caromed off of the brick walls, grating enough to almost assail Rose's ears. She was in no mood for this. She ignored it and kept walking as Al and Scorpius hurried along in her wake. "Rose!" the voice was persistent. "Rose! Wait up!"

"Hi, Zeke," Rose gave up as Zeke pushed his way past a rather surprised Al. She slowed down her rapid pace and the sail of her robes deflated; Zeke seemed to be having some difficulty keeping up with her. "You're going to Potions, right, Rose?"

"Yes, Zeke."

"Oh, good! And you finished the homework, right, Rose?"

"Yes, Zeke."

"I knew you would!" Rose gave him a look so perplexed that only Zeke's obstinate obliviousness could have barreled through. He barreled through it. "Do you think we'll be on time, Rose?"

"Yes, Zeke."

This conversation continued in a depressingly similar manner all the way down to the dungeons, where Potions class was still being held, despite the fact that the lessons were no longer taught by a bitter, potentially depressed Slytherin spy. By the time they reached the classroom, Al was practically in stitches, and even Scorpius was wearing a twisted smile that twitched regularly. Rose was glowering in the general direction of the floor, fiercely concentrating on each tile as though paying attention to it would stop Zeke's endless jabbering. Zeke was carrying on in all his oblivious glory.

Rose slammed her books down on the table hard enough that the sound echoed around the room, drawing stares from some of the other students who had already arrived. Al and Scorpius, sharing a meaningful look, purposefully took the seats to either side of her before Zeke could claim one of them.

"Thanks," Rose muttered. Al nodded – or rather, he moved his chin up and down very slightly, once, which Rose took to be acknowledgement. When she looked down to get out her parchment, her favorite quill (the one with the nib that always stayed sharp – a gift from her mother), and her ink, Al quickly shoved something underneath one of her books. It was, unsurprisingly, a note. Rose smirked; someday, they would learn to do this kind of thing by magic. But for now, this would have to do. She uncrumpled the parchment fragment.

**Do we still have to go to Transfiguration later?**

**_Yes, Al._ **

Class started. Professor Wistorren was lecturing today on a potion that they'd get to try for themselves, hopefully by the end of the week – so long as Wistorren managed to stop talking about his time working in St. Mungo's long enough to actually tell them what they were supposed to be making. As their professor turned his back to diagram on the chalkboard the very complex distinction between a figure-eight stir and a standard swirl stir, Al shoved another piece of paper in Rose's direction.

**Even though our professor is probably a you-know-what?**

**_Yes, Al._ **

**Have you changed your mind?**

_**No****.**_

**What about now?**

**_No._ **

Al huffed a little and bent over his parchment, scribbling furiously. Rose was too worldly-wise to imagine for even one second to think that he might actually be taking notes. Plus, Wistorren was still talking about the delicate process of the swirl stir, which Al had definitely already learned by baking endless cookies with Grandma Weasley. Rose was, of course, failing spectacularly at taking notes. She was almost relieved when Al shoved another parchment fragment in her direction; at least it would be a distraction from the endlessly droning cadences of Wistorren's voice.

**What about now?**

_**No.**_

**Fine. Then can we at least go to the Forbidden Forest and see the grave?**

Rose rushed compulsively to hide the note, even though no one else was paying any attention whatsoever to her private drama. After the initial shock, she gave Al a quizzical look. He looked back at her, his green eyes impenetrable, his quill hanging slackly from his fingers. Ink slowly dripped onto his otherwise blank page of notes for the day. Rose gave a little shrug and shoved the parchment over to Scorpius.

The blond boy kept his head down, appearing to continue his furious transcription of every one of the Potions Master's inane comments. But within four seconds he had slid a small piece of parchment back to Rose, who read it at a glance before passing it on to Al.

**Tonight.**

_**Author's Note: **__So here's what happened with this chapter: I wrote it. And then all the sudden it was somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-some pages in my Word document, and I'm sitting there going, "No, no, no, no, no. You are __**not**__ writing Lord of the Rings, .harmless. You're not even writing Harry Potter. Get a hold of yourself." _

_I'm serious, everyone, it was a monstrosity. It needed to be put down for its own good. So then I needed to pretend to be Dr. Frankenstein a little bit. A little off the sides, a little off the top, three pages going into Chapter 10, and so on and so forth. What you see here is the result. Anywho, I'm not entirely sure I like it all so much, but it gets the job done. And now I get to write the next chapter, which I'm ridiculously excited about. I will probably go back and "fix" this chapter at a later point, though. Any recommendations (beyond major plot points, which kind of can't change) would be welcome!_

_And on that note – thank you so much for reading, and sticking with this story. Thanks to those of you who have added this story to their favorites or alerts – with my wildly erratic update schedule, I think it's probably the only reliable way to keep track of me :) And thank you, especially, especially, **especially**(you can't see it, but there are an **infinite** amount of underlines underneath that last "essentially") to those of you who review or PM me. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to get feedback – good or bad - but I can tell you that if there were such a thing as non-creepy virtual cookies, I would send them to you. _

_I hope you all have a lovely holiday season, whatever holiday or holidays you are celebrating. Until next time!_

_-bbh_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10: Into the Woods**

_**Disclaimer: **__Well, it's lovely outside this time of year, and you know what that means, don't you? It means that I am now officially allergic to everything outside of my door. Hooray! _

_But more than sneezing, itching, and a general desire to shake Mother Nature by the shoulders and ask "WHYYYYYY?" spring makes me think of cleaning. Organization, if you will. Which is a shame, because my room is in shambles right now, but that's besides the point. The point is . . . organization. Yes, I believe that's the point. And organization reminds me of lists. I love lists. I love them so much that I made one for all of you! Here's my list:_

_Good things: the internet, rainbows, puppies, r/aww, cinnamon-scented candles, The Avengers movie that just came out, balsamic vinegar, photons, Marisha Pessl's prose, avocados, Shakespeare's poetry, the ending of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and cookies. All the cookies. _

_Bad things: plagiarism. _

_See, look, it's right there! In black and white! Plagiarism is BAD! _

_So here goes: I, .harmless, solemnly swear that I am up to ONLY GOOD (I even ate guacamole today!), and that, although the plotline and some of the details in the story that follows are mine, most of it belongs to J.K. Rowling, who is, for all intents and purposes, a wizard. _

_That said, please continue reading on this page, and enjoy the story! _

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

"I can't believe no one knows about this!" Al exclaimed excitedly, green eyes aglimmer with mischief.

"Well if you don't keep your voice down," Scorpius whispered, squinting suspiciously at the sloping ground before him, "That won't be true for much longer."

"Hush, the both of you!" Rose admonished.

It had been easy to convince James that the three of them wanted to sneak out and see Hagrid that night – after all, Al's mischievous older brother had done the same many a time. It had also been easy to convince him that they were bound for wretched failure if he didn't agree to help them – James's ego was an easy constant to bet on. It had been slightly more difficult to convince him that he needed to reveal to them one of his (and Hogwarts') best kept secrets – a passageway.

Back in the day, apparently, there had been a network of secret passageways throughout Hogwarts, honeycombing the castle like malintentioned bees. Fred had been known to claim that his father knew of all the passages, and had even used each of the seven secret routes out of the castle at one time or another during his tenure at the school. Rose was fairly certain that her parents must have used the passages at some point or another, though they had never stated it outright. The secret tunnels of Hogwarts were the very stuff of legend and story. But after the war, everything changed.

Everyone tended to remember the human casualties from the fateful Battle of Hogwarts; what they failed to recall was that one of the greatest magical structures in the world suffered crippling damage that day, too. There were spells that could heal broken limbs, spells that could regrow fingers or eyebrows, spells that could staunch bleeding or transfuse blood into a dying fighter. And though there were spells that could reconstruct a wall or smooth a war-torn brick, Hogwarts castle was much more than its stones, its walls, or its tapestries. Much of the underlying magic of the old castle had been damaged in the Battle. Over the years, things had healed – the Room of Requirement, once a burnt-out husk, had stopped smelling singed around the time Teddy Lupin had come to Hogwarts – but many things, like the passageways, were forever altered.

To start with, the number of functional passages now was uncertain at best. James claimed that there were three working at any one time, but Louis was convinced it was only two, and Fred thought it was five. The number hardly mattered, though, because the most salient feature of the tunnels now was not their quantity, it was their position. Which, of course, shifted constantly, without apparent rhyme or reason. At any given time, it was almost impossible to say precisely where the passages might start or end. According to Fred, this made sneaking around the castle rather like a game of Quidditch, only with four Snitches, flying mopsticks instead of brooms, and all the players wearing blindfolds. Rose didn't really understand the metaphor, but she got the gist. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on the circumstances) for she, Al, and Scorpius, James apparently had quite a knack for interpreting the "moods of the castle," and finding the best secret passage for any purpose at any time.

"I've just got the right nose for it," he said, tapping said protuberance as they headed up to Gryffindor Tower after dinner that night.

"'Course you have, Jamesie," said Louis, "And it doesn't hurt that you've also got the – _merde! _That _hurt_, James!" This last being in response to a sharp elbow to the stomach.

"We both got Dad's nose, James," said Al, poking his own with a finger.

"Well perhaps I'm just better at smelling than you are."

"You certainly are smellier."

"What was that?"

"Nothing," said Al with one of his might-as-well-be-patented angelic faces.

A few hours later, the trio walked silently – or at least, as quietly as possible – through the halls, following James. This was the quietest Rose had ever seen him for an extended period of time, but he was intent on his task. He shuffled ahead of them, seemingly hunched over his wand to hide the slight glow it was giving off. They were moving slowly – James claimed that the portraits paid less attention that way – keeping to the edges of the halls, where the shadows were thickest, and there were suits of armor to hide behind in case a professor or patrolling prefect came their way unexpectedly.

James stopped.

"This is it," he whispered, indicating an innocuous statue of a bent old woman in an overlarge cape. He tucked something into his robe as he turned around to face Rose, Al, and Scorpius.

"This?" Al asked.

"Yes. Drusilla Danglers guards the tunnel tonight."

"And you're sure this will take us to the Great Hall?" Rose asked.

"As sure as I'll ever be." James tapped the statue on its lower shoulder and said in an exceptionally polite tone, "_Aperire Sesamum._" The witch blinked her stone eyes ponderously and straightened her back. She was now taller by half than James. She held out an arm, and where her cape should have fallen in folds from her shoulder, Rose stared instead into a black tunnel. "Enjoy, you three! And if you get caught, just remember –"

"We never saw you," Rose, Al, and Scorpius chorused dutifully.

The tunnel wasn't entirely unpleasant, as tunnels went. Not that Rose had extensive experience with secret passages, mind. It was only _slightly_ damp and _slightly _chilly. And slightly moist, to Rose's slight disgust. But it did lead them directly to the Great Hall, where they emerged slightly worse for the wear from under an unusually stationary staircase. From there it was a simple matter of dashing across the hall pell-mell and in complete silence, throwing their weight against the giant oak doors, and rushing at last out into the night. Rose's heart was racing, thudding so loudly she would swear it reverberated off of the stone hall, until she gained some distance and the echoes were swallowed by the snowy grounds. She looked at Al and Scorpius, both out of breath, and the three shared a smile of somewhat shell-shocked relief: they had made it!

As the trio trekked through the fresh snow, they could feel the still-bright light from Hogwarts on their backs. It called them, it warmed them, it threw their robe-clad shadows into blurred relief on the untarnished snowscape at their feet. Unbeknownst to any of the three, a tall, whip-lean figure watched their progress from a glowing window. He watched until the night swallowed them up.

Blissfully unaware, cold to the bone, and no longer silent, Rose, Al, and Scorpius reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest without incident. The dim light emanating from Hagrid's cabin showed the clear delineation between the Forest and the rest of the grounds; it was a harsh reminder that what they were about to do was technically against the rules and probably unnecessary.

"Are we sure about this?" Rose asked.

"Yes," said Al. "I think we should see it."

"Remind me why, again?"

"Peter Travers was our only lead," said Al. "He made sense."

"But he's dead."

"That hasn't stopped Dark Wizards before," said Scorpius grimly. "I agree with Al. We have to see this through." Rose fell silent. She breathed in the sharply cold air, watched the snow on the trees stir with the merest breath of wind, felt the light of Hagrid's cabin at her back, calling her away; she had never felt less inclined to enter the Forbidden Forest. Not that it was usually much of a temptation anyway.

Al seemed to be feeling much the same thing. Underneath his slightly overlarge hat, his eyes were wide, staring into the darkness that awaited.

"Oh, come on," Scorpius huffed finally. "Isn't sneaking into the Forest some sort of rite of passage in your family anyways?" Without waiting for an answer, he headed into the darkness, his labored footsteps crunching in the as-yet-untouched snow. Rose and Al stayed at the edge of the forest.

"You realized he's the only one who knows where we're going, right?" said Al.

"Yes."

"So if we don't follow him now, we'll never find it."

"Yes."

"All right, just checking."

They hurried after Scorpius's retreating figure.

They wandered for what seemed like hours, following an aimless, uncertain path through the thickly populated Forest. To Rose, all of the trees looked the same – bent, black, menacing – they might as well have been going in circles for all she could tell. She had not the slightest inkling how Scorpius was navigating; there were no discernible landmarks, except for the one time they passed a disturbingly large spider's web, and Scorpius seemed to be making turns almost at random. This impression wasn't helped by the fact that he muttered to himself whenever he made a turn. It all sounded like nonsense to Rose. At one point she thought she caught the words "bone" and "marshmallow," but that couldn't have been right. As they continued to walk, and as Rose's feet grew colder and her hands stiffened into claw-like appendages in her mittens, her trust in Scorpius waned. She glanced over at Al, who was almost comically hunched over on himself in an effort to preserve the little warmth he had left, but Al kept his gaze trained on Scorpius's boots.

If she was perfectly honest with herself, Rose was only still following Scorpius because she was certain that she couldn't find her way out of the Forest on her own at this point. She was beginning to contemplate the possibility of questioning his sense of direction, even though she had seen the dangers of that conversation from many experiences with her parents ("Ron, dear, are you sure we were supposed to take a right after Daedalus' Dinglehopper Dugout?" "Yes, _dear_, of course I'm sure." "Ron, dear, this is beginning to look an awful lot like someplace we shouldn't be." "We're fine, _dear._" "Ron, dear, we're in Knockturn Alley." "How do you know?" "Because that hag over there is wearing a sign around her neck that says 'Welcome to Knockturn Alley: Knuckles on Sale Today.'" "We should probably go, Hermione." "Don't forget to check Rose's pockets when we get home. Again." "_Mum!"_).

And then Scorpius stopped so suddenly that Rose almost ran directly into him; she found it very difficult to make rapid decisions or movements with the cold seeping into her limbs and her mind.

"There's a fire," Al said softly. And so there was. The three of them stood on the edge of a fairly large clearing. There was silence here – there was silence everywhere in the forest, with the snow muting all of the normal shufflings or rustlings that might be heard – but the silence in the clearing was unnaturally complete. It was oppressive. Rose had a tingling sense of sudden catastrophe, and kept imagining dark shadows darting from behind the trees that ringed the clearing. And yet, there was light – a flickering flame throwing shadows against the pallid ground. Off to one side of the clearing, where the ground was slightly depressed in some ancient fold, lay a single branch, aflame. The fire had melted all of the surrounding snow, and the branch lay as though it had been dropped from the sky.

"This was not one of the landmarks I was looking for," said Scorpius uncertainly.

"We shouldn't be here," said Rose without knowing why. Yet there they were and there they stayed, transfixed, staring into the heart of the fire that shouldn't exist. It _looked_ like a perfectly ordinary fire – red-yellow-golden flames danced merrily, tongues of flame eating away at the darkness of the rest of the clearing, a tinge of blue at the center, just as it should be – and yet there was no smoke, and the wood burned on without being consumed. Rose's mind tried to come up with an explanation for what she was seeing, and failed spectacularly.

"Let's go," Rose said firmly. _This shouldn't be here, and neither should we._

"Where?" asked Al. "Aren't we lost?"

"My father never mentioned any fire," Scorpius began slowly, looking around as though regaining his bearings. His expression suggested that he had just been whacked over the head with a fairly heavy object. He shook his head. "But I think this is the clearing that he told me about. We're almost there."

"Do we have to . . . cross it?" Rose asked hesitantly.

"We should go around."

They did, but they still passed far closer to the inexplicable inferno than Rose would have liked. Naturally curious or no, there was something about the isolated clearing with a wholly impossible fire that made Rose uneasy. Al and Scorpius seemed to feel the same way; all three of them were shivering, and yet no one had even suggested warming up by the fire. That, Rose felt, would only have been inviting some sort of unspeakable disaster. As the passed the fire from within the safe boundary of the trees, Rose did notice something else strange, though. The fire was burning merrily; the flames reached well past her own relatively small stature. And yet, as she passed close, Rose noticed that it gave off no heat – none at all. She shivered and drew her cloak tighter against a chill it would not warm.

They came upon the smaller clearing almost by accident only moments later.

"I think this is it," Scorpius said softly.

"How do you know?" Al asked through stiff lips. Scorpius pointed to a tall, thin column of stone at the other edge of the clearing. They approached it slowly. It appeared to be carved into some sort of shape, though it was hard to make out in the darkness.

"Is that . . . Travers' grave-marker?" Rose asked cautiously as they grew closer and she began to make out the shape of the dark stone. It looked vaguely humanoid, but there was something very important missing.

"No," said Scorpius grimly. "That's Travers."

"Oh," Rose said involuntarily. She had stopped moving forwards. "Well, I don't think we really have to worry about him."

"Why's that?"

"He's made of stone," said Al as though it was obvious.

"And also, he's missing his head," said Rose.

"Father failed to mention that part."

They were silent, contemplating the statue for a few moments. There was a somberness to the scene, to be sure, but it could only hold them for so long, especially with other feelings like numbing coldness jostling for attention. With nothing more to see, they were headed back towards Hogwarts shortly thereafter. Rose didn't know whether or not she was supposed to feel relieved (one Death Eater down?) or frightened and somewhat shiftless since their only lead had turned into a literal dead-end, but what she felt mostly was a queasy feeling in her stomach.

"There are spells that _do that?_" she managed. They were entering back into the first clearing. The firelight, while not warm, eased some of the pall that Travers' headless . . . corpse? statue? had brought on the night.

"I bet there are a lot of spells that do awful things like that," said Al with shaky bravado. "Like melt your legs, or turn your bones into jelly, or –"

"_Stop_, Al!" Rose cried. Her voice echoed oddly in the snow.

"Now seems like a particularly bad time for that kind of talk, Potter," said Scorpius.

"_Potter . . . Potter . . ._" said his echo. And then . . .

_POTTER._

_ POTTER. _

"Is that you, Scorpius?" Al asked.

_POTTER. _

"That's not funny, Malfoy!"

"It's not me!"

"I don't believe y-"

Rose felt the blast but never heard it as a silent force sent her tumbling to the ground. The snow wasn't hard, but the tree she rolled into was, and she sat up rubbing what was going to be a sizeable bruise on her arm. Al and Scorpius looked equally dazed a few feet away.

"What was th-" Rose cut herself off as the light from the mysterious fire suddenly dimmed, not as though it was going out, more as though she was seeing it through a thick black curtain. The fire itself had been too strange to be comforting, but this was even more unsettling. Rose scrambled backwards instinctively. She had no idea what was going on here, but it was clearly _bad_.

A hissing sound filled the clearing and the snow towards the center began to sublime into steam. Just when Rose thought her ears would explode with the sheer volume of the hiss – it felt like the sound was pressing on her, holding her down, making it impossible to run – it cut off. A high, cold voice filled the clearing.

"Potter!" it screeched. "I will have my vengeance!" The ring of melting snow was expanding from the center of the clearing towards where Rose, Al, and Scorpius crouched, frozen. The voice continued. "Your world has been marred in ways you cannot imagine. My mere _memory_ will haunt the rest of your days. My power cannot be destroyed with my death! My – "

"Rose," Scorpius whispered, suddenly right next to her. "We have to get out of here." He grabbed her hand and pulled her up, and Rose grabbed Al by the arm. She tried to run, but her legs felt like lead, whether from cold or fear she couldn't say. She could still hear the voice behind her. It went on and on, cruel and implacable. Rose stumbled haphazardly in a direction, any direction, anywhere but there.

Once they passed the edge of the clearing, running got easier, and they did. They ran from the voice, from the fire and its dimming, from the headless stone corpse of Peter Travers, from their own foolishness at entering the Forbidden Forest. When they got far enough away that talking seemed safe but slowing down didn't, Rose spoke in a wheezing voice.

"This was – _gasp _ – probably a – _gasp _– bad idea."

"'Was'?" Scorpius panted. "We're not . . . out yet. There is . . . no 'was'."

"Run faster," Al wheezed, and followed his own advice. Rose didn't have any idea of what direction she was headed – "away" was enough right now. Her heart was pounding wildly with every labored footstep, her head whirring with fear, anxiety, and adrenaline. She almost didn't notice when they left the Forbidden Forest at last, mostly because she didn't expect it – they'd been running so quickly and with so little thought, she assumed they'd been running deeper into the Forest and getting themselves hopelessly lost, but anything was better than that cold voice and likely evaporation.

Ahead of her, Al stood with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily and coughing deeply. There was a moment of calm, of palpable relief, of surprised elation at having escaped sure doom, and then –

"Why is it," growled a deep voice, "That you lot never learn to stay out of that blasted Forest."

"HAGRID!" Rose had never been so happy to see someone in her entire life, not even that time that she and Al had gotten stuck in the attic at the Burrow and it had taken nearly eight hours for Uncle George to find them. She threw her arms around him – well, as much as she could, anyways.

"Come on inside, the three o' yeh," Hagrid chuckled, sounding a bit tired himself. "I'll get you a cup o' tea, so long as yeh swear not to tell anyone I did."

"Should we tell him?" Al whispered to Rose and Scorpius as they followed in Hagrid's small-dolphin-sized footprints. Rose and Scorpius shared a look.

"No," they said simultaneously, stepping into the welcoming warmth and light of the little hut.

When they slipped back into the castle much later that night, an impatient dawn was already seeping into the sullen shadows cast by the Forbidden Forest and leaking into the stolid stone hallways of Hogwarts. Rose yawned so widely that her jaw cracked. Al hushed her quickly.

"We're still sneaking, remember?"

"So stop talking, Al."

"I – " Al began indignantly, but then there was a sound of solitary humming floating down the hallway. "You can't be serious," he whispered indignantly, rolling his eyes he, Rose, and Scorpius wedged themselves into a corner behind a fortuitously-located tapestry. The weak light threw pallid shadows at their feet, and Rose could only hold her breath and hope that the hummer didn't notice a few toes or laces poking out from behind the wall-hanging. As the voice drew nearer it became clear that the melody was only an illusion; it wasn't humming they were hearing, it was talking. A low murmur, rising and falling in sing-song cadence. Rose couldn't quite make out the words, but something about them seemed familiar. She was reminded strongly of –

"Shakespeare?" Scorpius whispered incredulously. Rose shrugged as best she could without disturbing the tapestry before she realized that Scorpius wouldn't be able to see her anyways, as his eyes were inconveniently covered by the thick fabric.

"It's definitely iambic pentameter," Rose whispered back. There was a pause as the voice floated closer, and then Rose could make out some of the words.

"And every fair from fair sometimes declines

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed ,

But thy –

Hey! Is somebody there? I can hear you breathing, you know."

Scorpius held his breath. Al stopped fidgeting. Rose tried to melt into the wall. Footsteps shuffled within a meter of their hiding place, and Rose knew that if – well, whoever it was – looked towards the tapestry in the right light, their meager coverage wouldn't be enough to shield them. Every heartbeat, they were an instant closer to being found. Every footfall echoed in the way that only impending doom can. Suddenly, their experience in the forest paled in the face of potential detentions, of points lost from Gryffindor's hourglass, of possible expulsion.

"Miss Wilkes," came a quiet, controlled voice that sounded simultaneously like their redemption and their utter ruin. Rose started, and could feel Al and Scorpius tense beside her. She tried to make herself smaller, more still, quieter, if possible. The footsteps stopped abruptly.

"Professor Callister." The answering voice, full of resentment, was pitched too low for Melisenda's typical grating tone. Rose surmised that this must be the infamous older sister – Wendella Wilkes. Given her reputation, Rose wasn't surprised that she'd be out after hours. The Shakespeare, however, was puzzling.

"I must admit I am rather surprised to find you wandering the corridors at this hour. You are aware that students in this school are expected to obey a curfew, are you not?"

"Yes, sir." Wendy's polite words failed to mask the insolence in her tone.

"You are aware that it is five thirty in the morning, are you not?"

"I am. Are you, Professor?" There was a long pause, during which Rose desperately wished that she could see what was happening.

"I have responsibilities, Miss Wilkes. Things I must be doing. Three other students whose after-hours activities I must curb. You, Miss Wilkes, merely have to be in bed."

"I bloody well do not!"

"Miss Wilkes, this is highly irregular. You demonstrate a flagrant disregard for the rules – "

"Piss on the rules." There was another suspended pause.

"Miss Wilkes," Callister said, and Rose could swear she heard the stress of the professor trying not to snap with every word, "I have better things to do than deal with your insolence tonight. I would much prefer to send you back to your room with no protest and continue my tasks without further interruption. I hope you will not be difficult. You might begin by showing some respect for a professor."

The noise that Wendy made in response could only be described as a derisive snort. Rose's eyes grew wide behind the tapestry.

"Did you roll your eyes at me, Miss Wilkes?" There was no verbal response. "How prosaically adolescent. "

"Whatever."

"Miss Wilkes, it seems then that we have reached a decision with which I am most unhappy. Am I to understand that you will not willingly return to your own rooms at this time and leave me to my errands?"

"I'll go wherever I want. You can't _make_ me do anything, you're just an old – mmmmmmppphhhh!" Whatever Wendy Wilkes was going to say was lost in an ominously muffled, rapidly retreating yelp. One definite set of loud footsteps moved rapidly away from the tapestry, towards the Slytherin quarters. The footsteps were accompanied by an odd dragging noise and some thrashing.

After the footsteps and the dragging and the thrashing moved completely out of earshot, Rose, Al, and Scorpius still waited an extra three minutes before even daring to leave the safety of the tapestry. They immediately headed for Gryffindor Tower.

"Well, that was –" Al started to say.

"Less talking. We get in trouble every time we do that." Rose cut him off. Al shot her a look, but didn't disagree. Scorpius, of course, followed them in utter silence.

They arrived at Gryffindor Tower without further incident, and Al managed to puppy-dog-face the Fat Lady into submission and the promise of silence on the subject of their rule-breaking.

"Well that was strange," Rose said softly, allowing her legs to give out beneath her and collapsing into the welcoming arms of a very overstuffed chair. Grey light filled the Common Room; nighttime had undoubtedly been ousted for the day, but the last embers from the previous night's fire still flickered bravely in the fireplace. Even from a few feet away, Rose could feel their comforting warmth.

"Which part?" asked Al, sounding exhausted. "The fire that didn't burn anything, the statue without a head, the part where the Forest tried to attack us, or the time we were nearly caught by Melisenda Wilkes' older sister and Callister both?"

"I thought you were referring to Wendy Wilkes reciting Shakespeare," said Scorpius thoughtfully.

"All of it," said Rose. "I don't even know where to begin."

"It was a sonnet too," Scorpius continued. "I mean, a war monologue from one of the Henry's maybe, but a sonnet?"

"The Forest," Al groaned. "I'd nearly managed to forget. What _was_ that?"

"It was rather like hearing a baboon deliver Hamlet's soliloquy, except that would have been less surprising," Scorpius said to no one in particular.

"I don't know, Al, but I'm pretty sure it didn't like you very much."

"Where did she even _learn_ Shakespeare anyway? The Wilkes' aren't Muggleborn." Scorpius was prattling at this point, staring into the fire with an almost desperately calm look on his face.

"Scorpius?" Rose asked tentatively.

"And after all, Melisenda's supposed to be the smart one, and she's a right dullard as far as I can figure."

"Scorpius?"

"I've never even heard Wendy string that many syllables together."

"Hey! Scorpius!" Al snapped his fingers in front of the blond boy's immobile face. Scorpius blinked a few times and shook his head.

"Yes?"

"You all right there?"

"Of course," said his voice, but Scorpius's entire mien said otherwise. He looked drawn and tired, and more than a little shell-shocked. He was quiet for a moment. Rose and Al stared at him in consternation. "Is this what it's like every time?" he burst out suddenly.

"What what's like?" Al asked.

"_Adventuring_!" Scorpius spat like a malediction.

Rose and Al responded ineloquently by saying nothing at all. Scorpius looked at the both of them, looked at the fire, and ran his hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair. He looked adrift - completely in unfamiliar territory. Rose was reminded strongly of her Uncle Harry that time James had accidentally-on-purpose force-fed Al a Puking Pastille and Aunt Ginny forced him to deal with the mess because she was "too busy being gigantically pregnant with YOUR third child, Harry Potter; you have to pull some of the weight around here, and if you make a baby belly joke out of that I swear to Merlin I will Bat-Bogey you until they come out of your EYES!" Scorpius wore a similarly lost and slightly queasy expression to the one Uncle Harry had made.

"You two," Scorpius continued, "You two . . . we almost died tonight at least once. And then on top of that we could have been expelled. You can sit here laughing about it now, but you must realize that, had tonight gone only _slightly_ differently in _a single way_ we could have ended up both _dead _and _expelled?_ How are you _all right_ with this?"

"Well, we couldn't be both," Al said reasonably.

"Al's right. They're mutually exclusive."

"That's not the point. Stop being pedantic. We could have died. We could have been expelled."

"But we didn't, and we weren't," Al argued.

"We could have."

"All right, yes, so we could have died," Al agreed reluctantly. "But we also could have broken an ankle, singed off an eyebrow, impaled ourselves on a tree branch, bruised ourselves running into a wall – "

"The difference is," Scorpius interjected quietly. "The difference is that all of those things can be fixed." Al fell silent immediately. Scorpius didn't elaborate; he had nothing else to say.

Rose had a lot of things she wanted to say. She wanted to make another joke and break the heavy silence, but Scorpius's comment had lengthened the shadows in her mind and all she could see was how close they had come to disaster. She wanted to talk about what had happened in the Forest – about what the voice, and the mist, and the fire in the clearing meant – but now didn't feel like the right time to face those monsters. They had just eliminated one monster – a former Death Eater, a murderer, a potential threat, a clue - but so many more had taken his place. Peter Travers was innocent, for once in his life (or lack thereof), but then who was guilty? She wanted to scream that they had gotten it wrong, that Stone was an object and not a name, that the Resurrection Stone was the only remaining logical option. But now wasn't the time for I-told-you-so's, especially when she hadn't told anyone so. She wanted to hypothesize over what Callister and Wendy Wilkes had been up to, wandering the halls at dawn, but she found she didn't have the energy for that kind of imagination.

So instead she stared at a dying fire while the room lightened around her. And, as the light shifted from grey to pink to soft yellow, as the last vestiges of night left the sky over Hogwarts, three children who suddenly felt very young fell asleep in the cold sunlight that streamed into the Gryffindor Common Room.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

"Rose?" It was deja-vu all over again as Rose was shaken awake abruptly. Only this time she was curled uncomfortably on a chair in the Common Room instead of tucked into her four-poster bed. How had she even fallen asleep in that position?

"Mmmphargle," she muttered, or something equally coherent.

"What are you doing in here? Are you all right? Where have you been all night?" Katie's voice was full of concern, but her well-intentioned questions felt like a barrage against Rose's sleep-addled brain.

"Huhhhhnggg," Al groaned, rolling over on the couch. "Wassanoise?"

"It's your friendly morning wake-up call!" Annabelle trilled, skipping down the stairs from the girls' dorms.

"You're far too happy for," Scorpius checked the runic clock on the wall, "seven in the morning." He sat up on the couch, rubbing his eyes.

"Well, _some_ of us weren't out all night," Annabelle said with an almost vicious smile.

"Doing Merlin-knows-what. You're just lucky we saved you from being expelled," Katie remonstrated.

"You? Saved? What?" Rose was mystified and still half-asleep.

"Katie should explain," Annabelle looked at Katie meaningfully, but Katie glanced down at the floor and blushed. Annabelle rolled her eyes. "Or, you know, not. That's fine; I like talking. What Katie here is too shy or noble or something to say is that we basically saved your hide last night, Rose, and I'm guessing yours too, Al and Scorpius. I don't know what time you left - "

"You were definitely in bed when we all went to sleep," Katie cut in.

"Right. But Melisenda was gone."

"As usual," Willow noted. Rose hadn't even heard her coming down the stairs.

"Anyways!" Annabelle said loudly, "Anyways, she came back at three in the morning or some such ridiculous time. I've no idea how she got around the castle without being caught at that hour, but she wasn't exactly being quiet about it when she got back to the dormitory. Katie here," Annabelle clapped Katie on the back. Katie choked slightly in surprise. "Katie heard her come in. Melisenda started throwing a right tantrum about you not being in your bed, Rose – "

"You'd left your curtains open when you went out," Katie explained, sounding almost apologetic.

"And she was threatening to go report you to the Headmistress and Filch and Professor Callister and everyone in between. We had to . . . discourage her, you might say."

"How'd you do it?" Al asked, much more awake now.

"Well, Katie and I had to block the door – did Katie ever tell you her older brothers play something called _rugby_? Apparently it's violent, and very good training for this kind of incident. These Muggles, eh?" Rose giggled at the vision her brain was conjuring of sweet, pajama-clad, beslippered Katie MacEwan taking a defensive stance in front of the door to their room. "And Willow here," Annabelle continued, "Told Melisenda in great detail about the Snitch's Curse."

"What curse?" Rose asked, confused again.

"You don't know about the Snitch's Curse?" Annabelle seemed flabbergasted. Al and Rose shook their heads, but Scorpius nodded knowingly. Annabelle looked at Willow, who sighed.

"The Snitch's Curse," she intoned dramatically, pitching her voice low. Rose giggled. "It's not the same without the story-telling voice, all right, Rose? Anyways. The Snitch's Curse. No one knows how it began. No one remembers the name of its first victim. No one knows when it will strike next. But every Hogwarts student knows the misery that can be inflicted on the student that snitches. With the mere act of snitchery, the boils start. They'll begin on your face. They will spell out terrible messages. They will – "

Rose was laughing almost uncontrollably at this point.

"Boils are no laughing matter, Rose Weasley. They are painful. And they will spread. They –"

"They're not really boils, you know. Technically, I guess you'd call them pustules."

" . . .What?"

"Willow, let me explain the_ real_ story of your Snitch's Curse." Just then, Al's stomach rumbled wildly. Rose nearly lost it again.

"Maybe we can get some breakfast first?" Katie suggested with a small smile.

"Let me just change out of my, um," Rose realized she was still in the mud-spattered, slightly singed, and thoroughly filthy clothes from the night before. "These clothes. I'll be right back down."

As she headed up the staircase she could hear Al say to the room at large, "Nah, I'll just change after breakfast. It's Hogwarts. Everyone will just think I got attacked by a potted plant on the way to the Great Hall."

"Your cousins will probably be impressed," Scoprius said seriously.

Rose chuckled to herself as she headed up the stairs.

When she returned a few moments later, she was laughing no longer. She descended the stairs carefully. She could feel herself shaking with every step. Katie and Annabelle were laughing at something as she walked into the Common Room, and Al was wearing a triumphant "look-how-funny-I-am" look that froze awkwardly on his face when he noticed Rose.

"Are you all right, Rose?" Scorpius asked. Al looked at her imploringly, as though he knew what she was about to say and wanted, somehow, to stop her.

"Al," Rose began. "Al, you should probably go check your room."

In her had was a piece of paper and a playing card.

_**Author's Note: **__If I had 1000 words, I could not explain why I've been absent for six months (six months?). I'm so sorry. I feel as though I've let you down, those of you who have been reading this story. I don't want to get all angsty, so I'm just going to skip it and say that I'm terribly, terribly sorry, and I will try not to let it happen again. _

_That said, I'm glad that you're reading this story, if you're still here, and I'll do my utmost to not make you wait half a freaking year to get the next chapter up. _

_As always, I love seeing that people add this story to their updates list, and I especially love hearing feedback. I'm not a professional author, I'm a work in progress; I take every piece of feedback seriously, and I've even been known to use feedback to actually __**go back and fix parts of the story that need some lovin'**__. Gasp. So, yes, reviews and favoritings are lovely. If you have a moment to spare, of course :)  
><em>


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 11: And May All Your Christmases Be Bright**

_**Disclaimer:**_ _Imagine for a moment, if you will, that you are a salmon. Yes, a salmon. You've lived nearly all your adult fishy life at sea. It's home to you. But now you feel this strange urge to head back to where you were born. "It's time," you think. "I want to see home again. And I think that's where I want my children to be born. It's a nice place to grow up." And so you undertake this journey that is nothing less than epic. You swim against the current. You travel miles and miles and miles. You swim until you feel your tail might fall off, but you keep swimming. At last you make it to the place where you're born. You've given so much to be here, given it your all really, just so that your kids can hatch in such a lovely place, and you finally made it. Congratulations! What happens next?_

_Well, if you're imagination is good and you're still a salmon, here's what happens: you spawn and then you die within a couple of weeks. What? After all that effort, you just __**die?**__ Yes. _

_Writing is kind of like being a salmon. Bear with me here. You pour your soul into these characters, these stories, these words, you give them your all, and then you put them out there, and . . . that's it. That's the end of your role. After that, it's up to them (your characters). You're hopefully not actually dead, but you might as well be. As an author, being remembered and recognized is like a little resurrection. It's usually the characters that get the recognition. Case in point: Googling "JK Rowling" gets you __48,100,000 hits; Googling "Harry Potter" gets you 437,000,000. Googling "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle" gets you 21,100,000 results; Googling "Sherlock Holmes" gets you 93,900,000. And those are really, really famous authors. So, as someone who writes and understands how it feels, I always like to give credit where credit is due. Many of these characters and this world belong to JK Rowling. She created and nurtured them, and released them into the world. Thanks to her for letting us play around with her creations. Enjoy!_

The first stage of grief, they say, is denial. The last stage is acceptance. Most people pass through the five stages of grief slowly, over weeks, months, or even years. Thankfully, Al did it in a minute flat, and skipped the three middle phases.

"No," he said calmly. "I should probably go get a nice, hot breakfast in the Great Hall." He stood up on remarkably steady legs and headed towards the portrait-hole.

"Al," Rose called. He continued stubbornly.

"Al!" Scorpius said sharply. Al had almost, but not quite, made it to the portrait hole. He stopped and sighed. Rose could almost see him rolling his eyes, though she was facing only his back and a head of messy black hair.

"Fine," Al huffed. "Might as well get it over with." He all but jogged up the stairs to the boys' dormitory.

"What was that all about?" Katie asked, looking concerned. Rose realized she probably looked quite the mess, and tried patting her hair a few times experimentally. Bramblebush – perfect.

"It's nothing, Katie. Why don't you three head down – we'll wait for Al and catch you up. "

"This wouldn't have anything to do with where you three disappeared to last night, would it?" Willow asked pointedly.

"I think Rose said we'd meet you down there," Scorpius cut in smoothly. He looked hard at Willow, who shrugged and headed out of the portrait hole with an imprecation that sounded suspiciously like "_Malfoys!" _Annabelle and Katie followed silently.

"I'll never understand how you manage to intimidate people half a meter taller than you on a regular basis," Rose commented, slouching into a chair.

"Breeding," Scorpius said mildly.

Al returned, much as Rose had, clutching a scrap of paper and a playing card.

"What does yours say? Mine's some sort of poem – again. This Stone guy really likes his poetry."

"Let me see it!" Rose grabbed the sheet of paper and scanned it rapidly. "It's exactly the same as mine. Word for word. I wonder . . ."

"What does it say?" Scorpius asked, reaching for the paper. Rose handed over Al's copy, brow furrowed.

_I seek an object, or three - _

_ The power to bind you to me;_

_ I'll find and I'll take,_

_ I'll mend Grave mistakes,_

_ So as it once was, it shall be._

Rose looked at the card in her hand. A disembodied hand, floating in an illustrated sky, gripped what looked like a wand. Or perhaps a rod of some sort? The card was the size of a normal playing card, but with the strange illustration where there would have been a moving illustration or an exploding number. This was no Exploding Snap card, that was certain. Rose snuck a look at Al's card, and saw with an odd feeling of excitement in her stomach that the picture showed an elderly man wearing a fanciful cape.

"Oh," she said quietly, interrupting whatever conversation Al and Scorpius had been having. "Oh!"

"You look like you've had an idea," said Al.

"Oh what?" asked Scorpius.

"Oh - I think I understand. We've been going about this entirely the wrong way." _Or at least, the two of you have, _said the snide voice in Rose's head. She pushed the voice aside and gathered her thoughts; there was a time and a place for snark – it was not now, and it usually belonged to Scorpius, anyway. "I never thought Peter Travers was Stone – sorry, Scorpius – "

"No you're not."

" - But, seeing this, I don't even think Stone is a person. I think," she took a deep breath, "I think the letters are talking about an actual Stone. I think – "

"You can't possibly mean the – " Al began.

"I do," Rose said softly, looking at the note and the card she clutched in her hands. "And I think this proves it."

Al grabbed his copy of the note from Scorpius and scanned it quickly. The color drained from his face.

"Oh Merlin. Oh no, no no . . . oh, Merlin. Rose, I think you're right."

"I think I am, too."

"What are we going to do?"

"What are we talking about?" Scorpius broke in, interrupting Al's rising panic. Rose and Al traded a glance – what would they tell Scorpius? It was one thing that he knew about the letters, one thing that he knew about the secret passages, one thing that he had proven himself a friend time and again. But both Rose's and Al's parents had expressly forbidden them from telling anyone –_ anyone – _about the Hallows. What would they tell Scorpius?

Meanwhile, Scorpius had caught the hesitation, the glances Rose and Al had been sharing. "Well, when you two are done being cryptic, why don't you come find me. I'll be over in the Great Hall," Scorpius pointed in a random direction that may or may not have actually corresponded to the orientation of the Great Hall, depending on the phase of Mars, "Pretending to accomplish something long enough for Rose to decide for the eighteenth time that I'm probably trustworthy."

Scorpius knew just how to push her buttons. "You don't have to go anywhere, Scorpius," she said, sighing. Al looked at her in surprise. "He already knows about the Horcruxes," she explained, "and the prophecy. What's the harm?

"It's the Hallows," Rose continued without fanfare. "That's what he's after."

"The Hallows. You told me that was another word for "Horcrux." Scorpius was skeptical.

"Yes, well. I lied. Sorry."

"No you're not."

"You're right. Now hush so I can explain."

She outlined her theory. "Stone" wasn't a name, it was a threat – clearly, this was the work of some Dark wizard or witch who knew about the untold powers of the Resurrection Stone. Rose was still a little bit fuzzy on that aspect, as her researches hadn't turned up anything particularly awful-sounding about the Stone, but perhaps she just wasn't looking at the right resources – something she heavily hinted that Scorpius might be able to help her with. This latest message had made everything fit so perfectly; someone was searching for three objects of power, one of which could "undo Grave mistakes." This same someone had matched the images on the playing cards to two of the three Deathly Hallows, and heavily referenced the third. Clearly, someone wanted the Deathly Hallows. This someone had found out that the Potters and the Weasleys were the only living people who knew where the Hallows were. Someone wanted to find them badly enough to threaten their children. Someone was smart enough to know that direct references to the Hallows would only be believed, or even noticed, by the only people who knew them to be real.

Someone knew an awful lot about the Potters and the Weasleys. Someone knew an awful lot about Rose and Al. Someone knew where they slept.

All the sudden, the fact that everything fell into place – the fact that she'd been right all along – was much more terrifying than it was exciting.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

"Rose, Al, might I borrow you for a moment?" Professor Longbottom asked at the end of Herbology that day. The rest of the students trickled slowly out of the room, though Rose did notice Scorpius lingering to the last. She thought she saw a flash of white-blond hair just before the door closed, but that might have been imagination. Or a hallucination. When you were around this many magical plants, sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference.

Uncle Neville leaned over a trailing hearthvine and checked a few leaves.

"Are you two all right?" he asked. He seemed almost reluctant to meet their eyes.

"Of course I'm Al right," Al quipped, but his voice was exhausted.

"I wasn't making a pun, Al," Uncle Neville chided. "It was a serious question." He continued to prune the leaves on the plant, which was emitting a soft glow and crackling occasionally. Al and Rose remained silent. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said gently, after a long pause. "I know how that goes. And I know I'm not your father, or even your real uncle, but I can tell when something's wrong. You two have had dark circles under your eyes more days than not this year, and you look like you saw a whole army of ghosts last night when you snuck out."

"How did you – "Al began.

"Your father isn't the only one who befriended Hagrid during his time here, Al. He lets me know when important things happen. Like when a Potter, a Weasley, and a – um, friend? - come barreling out of the forest at Merlin-knows-what hour, looking as pale as a full moon."

"We were just – "

"Don't lie to me." Uncle Neville's tone was suddenly sharp. He turned back to his plants. "I said I don't mind if you don't want to tell me; but I will mind if you lie." Al got a stubborn glint in his eyes, and Neville laughed suddenly. "You two remind me so much of your parents at this age. Listen, whatever's going on, I just wanted to let you know that you can come to me if you need anything. Anything at all. Any time, and I mean it."

"We're just," Rose began, hoping that the end of the sentence would somehow magically appear in her mind if she just started it. It didn't.

"Thanks, Uncle Neville," Al said.

"Anytime," he said kindly. "And I mean it. Any time, at all. There was a time when I'd not have believed that three first-years could get up to mischief amounting to much of anything, but that was before I met either of your families. I've learned since then. So, yes. You know where to find me if you need me. And you know I can have your parents here in a trice if you need them," he said, his eyes gleaming. He reached a hand into the pockets of his robe and seemed to be feeling for something.

"How . . .?" Rose began.

"There are certain things that you never stop carrying," Uncle Neville said. He held up what looked like a completely normal Galleon coin and chuckled at Rose and Al's apparent confusion. "If you don't know, I'll not be the one to tell you about it. Now hurry along to your next class. I wouldn't want you late on my account."

Rose and Al hurried outside, found Scorpius lurking in what he must have thought was a subtle way immediately outside the door of Greenhouse One, and rushed to catch their classmates up. No one ever wanted to be late for Transfiguration.

Rose didn't have a concrete reason, but all the same she dreaded going to Transfiguration that day. After all, it wasn't as though Callister had actually caught them. But still, something about the way his eyes had settled on the Gryffindor table during breakfast, something about they clack of his heels as he passed them with long-legged strides in the hall, something about the way he smiled and shut the door behind them as they entered his class . . . Rose was unsettled, to say the least.

Nothing happened, which was almost worse. Callister had set them all to practicing a devilishly tricky dual change-of-state transfiguration, which normally Rose would have mastered by midway through class at the latest. But today she was distracted, exhausted, and jumpy – not a good combination. Al just looked at her sympathetically – he wasn't having the least bit of success either, and his ice cubes kept melting into some sort of green slime all over his desk. Even Scorpius didn't seem to have his heart in it, judging by the catatonic glaze in his glance and the fact that he kept drifting off mid-spell. Dax chuckled good-naturedly and poked him with a quill.

Given their abysmal performance in class, Rose couldn't be sure if Callister kept glancing in their direction to ensure that they hadn't blown themselves (or anyone else) up, or if his opaque, severe glance had more sinister undertones. Of course, she also could have been imagining it entirely. But though there were many symptoms of sleep deprivation (not a few which Rose was experiencing), she didn't think paranoia was among them. So she wasn't entirely surprised when Al hurried up to her immediately after class, huddling close so that their conversation was lost in the thronging commotion of the hallway.

"Did you notice the way Callister kept staring at us in lessons today?"

"I did," Rose admitted. "But I thought I might be imagining it."

"Imagining? I thought he was going to bore a hole through my brain, which is impressive, as he'd have to get through my hair first." Al ran a hand agitatedly through said hair. It stood on end more than usual, as though to emphasize his point.

"Do you think he knows?" Rose asked carefully, "About last night?"

"I dunno. Maybe he's friends with Hagrid too?"

Rose snorted. "Not likely. You've heard the way Hagrid talks about him. I don't think there's much in the way of a relationship built on mutual trust there."

"And also Callister's a Slytherin," Scorpius added. Funny how Rose hadn't even noticed his joining the conversation.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Oh, you know," Scorpius waved a hand vaguely, just managing to miss a rather hulking Hufflepuff third year that Rose recognized from the most recent Quidditch game. She looked blankly at Scorpius; Al seemed to share her confusion. "No, I guess you don't. Never mind. Shall we head to the library?"

For a change, they weren't library-bound due to homework or preparation for Potions lessons. Classes were winding down in preparation for the Christmas Holidays, so even Callister hadn't assigned them as much homework as was his wont. Professor Flitwick had started them on the _Scintillare_ incantation, which he assured them would come in handy during Holiday decorating. So far, though, it had mostly been used by Dax, Connor, and Al to make various objects belonging to the other two sparkle – a quill in History of Magic, a cauldron in Potions, a set of Quidditch robes – nothing was safe. Except for Scorpius's things, of course. For some reason, no one touched those.

Professor Jones had been focusing more on the physical aspects of their Defense skills recently, which was a welcome mental break. Especially when the homework she assigned was to have a giant snowball fight on the grounds to "develop their battle-ready mindsets in a (mostly) safe environment while ensuring strenuous physical activity." Rose thought that she really just wanted to see the chaos that followed from such an assignment, but hardly minded.

So all in all, they approached the holidays with rather more time on their hands than they had previously – which meant more time to decrypt the messages sent to Rose and Al by their threatening correspondent. Now that they were fairly certain that the Hallows were the intended target, at least they had a concrete starting point. And since the invisible menace had seemed to focus the most attention on the Resurrection Stone, they figured they should as well.

Rose filled Al and Scorpius in on the little she'd been able to glean in her solitary hours in the library. The Resurrection Stone didn't blazon a bloody trail through history the way the Elder Wand did, and so it was difficult to find. But neither did it sneak soundlessly through the years the way the Invisibility Cloak had – passed quietly from father to son, without fanfare – and so it was possible to find mentions if it now and again. Now that there were three of them searching, it was easier to find those instances. More information started to pour in – and it didn't look good.

The Resurrection Stone, as it turned out, was tenuously connected to many rather unsavory moments in Wizarding History before it came to rest on the finger of Marden Gaunt. Around the year 1253, a member of a tribe of Nordic settlers in Greenland wrote of a smooth black stone he'd been given by a trader from the Holy Roman Empire before he left. Later, when the founding chieftain, Gunnjborn Lundergaart, returned from a supplies run, he found all 153 of the settlers dead, save for 3. That those remaining 3 were now Inferi was inexplicable to Gunnjborn, partially because they were unable to communicate, and partially because he killed them on sight. This information Scorpius found while digging through the otherwise-dull record of the International Warlock Convention of 1289. Less than 100 years later, the winner of 1430's All-England Wizard's Dueling Competition won honor by losing her life in a battle against an "Armie of the Non-Dead." At the end of the battle, a smooth black stone was found clutched in the hand of the only living member of the otherwise zombified army. An elderly man in 16th century Britain claimed to be living with his wife, despite the fact that she'd been dead for 12 years. When one of the other townspeople caught sight of her one day, the elderly man was arrested and hanged as a warlock. Among his documented possessions was a gold ring bearing a heavy black stone. And there were other stories, other instances, other whispers.

Still, Rose began to see why not many sought the Stone the way they had the Elder Wand – it seemed that the art of its use was difficult to master. Though an army of Inferi was not subtle, it appeared that only a handful of people throughout history had been able to use the Stone to even create a single Inferius, let alone a multitude over which they could retain control. But the fact that that ability seemed to exist was . . . well, terrifying. And Stone, or whatever they were calling him now, seemed focused on the Resurrection Stone. "I'll undo Grave mistakes." _I'll raise the dead_. How else could that be interpreted?

Rose, Al, and Scorpius were discussing their research and their mysterious poet over breakfast one day. The Great Hall had been practically empty when they first arrived, so it seemed safe. They merely dropped their voices and craned their heads more closely together as other students had trickled in. Scorpius leant halfway across the table towards Rose and Al, one elbow dangerously close to the butter dish.

"What seems so odd to me," Scorpius was saying, "Is that the messages can get to you at all. Is your stalker breaking into the castle? Or does he have someone on the inside; a ra-"

"Scorpius!" a shrill voice rang out. Scorpius visibly stiffened, snapping his mouth shut mid-rodent and leaning away from Rose rapidly. His eyes focused on what Rose could only assume was the source of the grating voice, somewhere over her right shoulder.

"Azalea."

"We were _supposed_ to meet up last night, Scorpius."

"I'm sorry, 'Lea, I . . . I forgot. I was – "

"Busy with more important things, obviously. Busy with the riff-raff you call your _friends_ now." Azalea's pinched face was not improved by her narrowed eyes and the haughty look she was wearing. "_Riff raff_?" Al muttered under his breath.

"Azalea, I don't think you've met Rose _Weasley _and Albus _Potter_. Rose and Al –" Scorpius seemed to be trying to hang onto a modicum of decorum as he began the introductions hurriedly. Any hope he had of heading Azalea off, though, was brushed aside with a flick of her hand.

"I don't _want_ an introduction," Azalea huffed. "Mum says they're beneath me."

"They're in my House, 'Lea."

"Your _House_," Azalea sniffed petulantly. "It's like I don't even know you anymore."

"That's a little much, don't you think?"

"Then why are you spending all your time with _them_?" Azalea's voice was turning tremulous now, her cheeks reddening beneath a spattering of freckles.

"Because we live together. We have all of our classes together. How did you think it was going to be when I was Sorted into Gryffindor?"

"You never have time for _me_ anymore!"

"Lea, I said I would try to –"  
>"You know, my mum says this is exactly what your father was worried about. She says he knew you'd become a . . . a <em>traitor!"<em> Azalea shrieked the last word before burying her head in her hands and running off. She left stunned silence in her wake.

"Riff raff?" Al asked as she stomped away.

"Her mother's a melodramatic twit, and the apple didn't fall far from the tree," Scorpius said brusquely, his eyebrows knotted together. He softened suddenly, slumping as he continued, "But we've known each other since before we could talk. She's my best, well, my oldest – "

"Sometimes we don't get to choose our friends, Scorpius," Rose said quietly.

"Yeah. Sometimes." Scorpius gave Rose a long look after that, and the sleepy breakfast chatter in the hall filled the lull in the conversation.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_

All too soon, or perhaps not soon enough, the holidays were upon them. Packed, bundled, and sometimes accidentally lighting themselves on fire, the students who were headed home waited outside for the Hogwarts Express. Rose was beyond excited to be going home, or rather, to the Burrow. Holidays at the Burrow were, quite simply, unbeatable. She and Al chattered excitedly about their plans. They would bake cookies with Grandma Weasley, though perhaps it would be better if more than half the batter was left to bake when Al was done with it – he'd been violently ill last year, much to James's amusement. They'd challenge Fred and Roxanne to a high-stakes game of Exploding Snap – whoever won didn't have to sleep in the haunted attic, though the ghoul gotten a lot less ghoulish since they'd started bringing him hot cider on cold nights. They'd watch Uncle Percy doze off in the middle of his own explanation of the importance of Floo Regulations. They'd likely form an alliance with James and Louis during the inevitable snowball war, which they would of course proceed to break in favor of the much more strategic alliance with Dominique and Victoire. Victoire, at least, was of age, and could probably be persuaded by Teddy to use magic. Teddy always had a soft spot for Rose, anyway. Aunt Ginny would regale them with tales about her Quidditch days, Uncle Harry would sip Butterbeer and look amazed at the amount of people around him, even after all these years, and Aunt Fleur would be shocked by some standard British Christmas tradition that Uncle Bill would have to explain to her for the umpteenth time. And they would, of course, try very hard not to Spellotape Hugo's mouth shut, the little wanker (Rose thought fondly).

Scorpius stood slightly apart from the discussion of imminent festivities, gazing intently at the train tracks. A long whistle indicated the approach of the Hogwarts Express, and with much ballyhooing and of course the usual end-of-term-we-can't-do-magic-over-the-holidays shenanigans as students boarded the train. Louis ran by James, who was chatting with some of his third-year friends, and shouted a word Rose didn't quite catch. James's and Al's robes were suddenly flipped unceremoniously over their heads. Both boys yelped violently and were on the point of giving chase, once they'd righted themselves, but Roxanne stopped them.

"Don't worry," she said, smiling. "I've charmed his hair. Every time he pulls on his fringe like this," she demonstrated, "It'll start whistling the tune of 'I'm A Little Teapot.'"

"But he does that all the time!" Al exclaimed.

"Brilliant," James sighed appreciatively. "And he's not noticed yet?"

"I know how to avoid getting caught," Roxanne said, winking. "See you at the Burrow!"

Rose, Al, and Scorpius found a compartment together on the train. They were quickly joined by Katie, Willow, and Dax – Annabelle and Connor were staying at school, and, frankly, Rose didn't care what Melisenda was doing so long as she wasn't in their compartment. Things got slightly awkward and very crowded when Ezekiel Smith sidled his way into their compartment, but they mostly ignored him. He was quieter than usual, which made it easier.

Having a crowded compartment was fun, but it did prevent them from discussing any serious matters. That might have been for the better, though, as they'd hashed and rehashed through everything so many times it was almost possible for Rose to fill in Al's and Scorpius's parts in the conversation without them needing to say anything. Perhaps it would help them to take a bit of a break; they'd certainly be safe enough at home.

Soon enough they were pulling into King's Cross, and it was all hasty goodbyes, a mess of heavy trunks, reunions with tearful parents, and awkwardly trying to avoid Mr. Malfoy's penetrating gaze as Rose, Al, and Scorpius all got off the train within seconds of each other.

Several tearful reunions later – Fred, it turned out, had accidentally swallowed a large quantity of Sobbing Seltzer right before disembarking – the Weasley-Potter-Lupin clan had piled into a single car and set of for the Burrow. Rose waved happily to Katie and Willow through the back window as the overloaded, overstressed car clunked into motion.

Christmas holidays, of course, lived up to expectations. Cookies were baked; Snaps were Exploded; snowball battles were fought, after which everyone tracked snow into the house, got scolded by Grandma Weasley for making a mess, and then made a beeline for Aunt Fleur and her famous French Hot Cocoa. Grandpa Weasley almost blew up the Burrow trying to put together a Muggle Christmas display, after which Uncle Charlie and Uncle Bill took him into the shed and distracted him with a model airplane while Rose's father and Uncle Harry set up a real tree.

Christmas morning was a madhouse as usual, as the tree was positively bombarded with ginger, blonde, and black-haired progeny. Everyone got a Weasley sweater, of course, but Rose was especially excited about the _Livre de Magie Inhabituelle _from Aunt Fleur and Uncle Bill, and the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Starter Kit she from Aunt Angelina and Uncle George, which began whistling and making odd belching noises even before she'd unwrapped it. Christmas lunch was a rambunctious and loud affair. Christmas tobogganing down the hill behind the Burrow was as harrowing as usual, largely because of the obstacles set up by Uncle George, Louis, and Roxanne, and the fact that the toboggans had no steering apparati to speak of. By the time Christmas dinner came around, everyone had settled down a bit, just in time to get all riled up again by Christmas dessert (for the children) and Christmas Firewhiskey (for the adults, and Teddy and Victoire).

Just when Rose was growing sleepy and contented, half-sprawled on an armchair by the fire; just when she was laughing drowsily as James chased Roxanne around because she'd swiped his new Quipping Quill (really, it was a concerted effort between Roxanne, Rose, and Lucy, but no one had figured that out yet); just when her eyelids began to droop in earnest . . .

"Rosie," said her father, beckoning from the kitchen. He'd spent most of the night roaring with laughter at the look on Bill's face, which alternated between a bemused tenderness and outright rage as he watched Teddy and Victoire snuggle – snuggle! – on a couch by the fire. Either the laughter or the Firewhiskey and mulled mead made the tips of his ears conspicuously red.

Rose got up and followed him. Once in the kitchen, Ron retreated in to the very back corner, as far from the glow of the fire and the constant murmur of conversation as possible.

"Firstly," her father said. "Your mother and Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny have finally decided that it's high time to tell you about the letters we had before the start of school. Do me a favor and act surprised, will you?"

"Of course."

"And tell Al as well?"

"Of course."

"Good."

"And secondly . . ." Rose prompted with a smile.

"What?"

"Well, you said 'firstly.' That means there's a 'secondly.' What's second?"

"Secondly," her father began, grinning, "I have a present for you."

"But I already got yours and Mum's Christmas present!"

"This one's just from me, Rosie. And it's a secret. You can't even tell Mum, ok?"

"Why not?"

"I just . . . I don't think she'd approve."

" . . . What is it?" Rose was imagining all of the possible gifts her mother wouldn't approve of.

"It's called the . . . It's called _a_ Deluminator." He handed her a small object that looked like a cigarette lighter, which Rose's mother certainly would not have approved of. Nevertheless, it did not look so forbidden and secret as her father had made it sound.

"De-luminator. It puts out lights?" Rose looked at it consideringly.

"Yes, and other things. It – "

"_Ron!" _came Aunt Ginny's voice, laughing. "Come rescue your son from my children!"

"Be right there!" Rose's father called. He turned back to Rose just as she moved to click the button. _"Not now, Rose!"_ he whispered forcefully, and she froze.

"All right, all right."

"Rose, I want you to keep it on you always."

"Um . . ."

"Rose," her father looked at her seriously. "_Always_, all right?"

"O . . . k?"

"_Daddy!" _Hugo wailed from the other room.

"Coming!" Rose's father called. He looked at Rose before he left. "Remember, Rose," he said gravely, before going off to rescue Hugo from the nefarious clutches of his older cousins. Rose stood in the kitchen alone, contemplating the innocuous-looking object in her hand. It was small, silver, and surprisingly heavy for its size. She flicked it open experimentally and held it up, her finger poised to click the small button. But her father had seemed awfully insistent that she not use it now. Sighing, she tucked it into her pocket and headed back out to join the dwindling festivities.

Rose spent much of her time over the next several days frustrated that she couldn't find a time or a place to test out her Deluminator. She kept running into aunts in the hallways, uncles in the basement, Grandpa Weasley in the shed, and cousins, cousins, cousins everywhere. With Christmas behind them and the New Year fast approaching, many of the younger Weasley-Lupin-Potters found themselves shunted out of the way for the in-between house cleaning ("We're just going to mess everything up again," Louis grumbled when Aunt Audrey told him off for scorching some of the wallpaper after eating some Pepper Imps. Dominique and Molly were unsympathetic to his plight, having each had sections of their hair singed off).

Still, it wasn't as though the holidays were unenjoyable – that would have been thoroughly unimaginable. Food, family, and numerous distractions helped ease the minor sting of irritation Rose felt at not being able to experiment with her mysterious gift. And, try as she might, she could never seem to corner her father to ask him more about it.

Finally, the last night before their return to Hogwarts, he found her.

"What are you doing in here?" Ron asked, ducking slightly to enter the old broom shed.

"Looking for someplace to try out the Deluminator. "

"And did you find one?"

"Well, there are no lights in here."

"So it worked?"

"There weren't any lights when I got here either." Rose sighed. "Guess I'll have to keep looking."

"You can try it when you get back to school, Rosie. I'm sure you'll have lots of chances then. In the meantime, I thought we could talk a little bit more about it. There are some things I'd like you to know about – "

"Ron! What are you doing in the broom shed! We're supposed to be having our talk!" Hermione poked her head into the broom shed, and Rose hastily shoved the Deluminator in her pocket. "Come on, Rose. We're meeting up in the kitchen."

"We?"

"We've got some things to talk about." Her mother was trying to look unconcerned, but the way she fiddled with the cuffs of her shirt gave her away. Ron gave Rose a look that either conveyed great significance or meant he had banged his head against the ceiling again. _Ah_, thought Rose, _they'll be telling us about the Hey Diddle Diddle letters now, then_. It was about time.

In the warm, close kitchen of the Burrow, Rose and her parents joined Al and his in a gathering that was much less surprising for the two children than anyone, save Ron, anticipated.

"Rose and Al," Uncle Harry began, "We've got something to tell you." By prior agreement, the two cousins simply looked at him expectantly, and so he began to tell them a story that they were obviously already well acquainted with. About how the letters came before school started that year, spelling out a perverse nursery rhyme. About how those letters seemed to tie in with the odd quatrain they'd found in their dormitories more recently. Rose and Al chimed in about the limerick they'd both received right before Christmas Holidays, and watched Uncle Harry's face sag just a little bit more. He forged on valiantly, though. He talked about how they were making progress on tracking whoever sent those letter, and they had their suspicions, really they did, but . . .

"You haven't had any luck tracing them, have you?" Rose asked.

Ron sighed deeply. "No, we haven't."

"And it's not for lack of trying," Hermione broke in. "There's just nothing to go on - no magical signature, no fingerprints, no distinguishing characteristics, nothing. Not even from the top hats. We can't even figure out where the hats were purchased – the labels were torn out. Seems whoever did this knew what they were doing."

"That's comforting," Al said.

"I wish we had better news for you," Rose's father said. "And maybe with these playing cards and the new message, we'll be able to find something out about this Stone character." But he didn't sound hopeful. Rose decided it was time to bring up the theory that she, Al, and Scorpius had developed.

"You don't think that, maybe, Stone isn't a person?"

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked sharply.

"I mean, the cards, the limerick, everything, doesn't it all fit with . . . well, with someone being after the Hallows?"

"The Resurrection Stone . . ." Hermione breathed. "Oh . . ."

"Oh _shite_," Ron swore loudly.

"_Ron!_" Aunt Ginny admonished sharply. "The kids!"

"Like they've never heard it before," Ron said defensively. "And this is three months' work down the drain for us! If Rose is right, we've been going about this entirely the wrong way."

"I think we've got bigger things to worry about than Ron swearing in front of the children, Gin. " Uncle Harry turned to Rose. "That's a brilliant idea, Rose. I can't believe we didn't think of it before. We'll have to do some more searching, but we'll let you know what we find."

"But what about once we're back at Hogwarts? Are we in danger?" Al asked anxiously.

"Of course not, Al. You'll be safe as ever," Aunt Ginny said definitely.

"Safe?" Al cried, "What do you mean, safe, Mum? Someone knows where we sleep! Someone is breaking into our rooms – into _Hogwarts!_ How could we be _safe?_"

"Because nothing has happened to you yet," said Uncle Harry wearily. "There are always patterns to how people behave, especially the bad types. If they wanted _you_, if they wanted to hurt _you_ and were able to do so, they would have already. That's how these things work. Plus, Hogwarts has defensive enchantments like you wouldn't believe. There's nothing that can get you out of that castle."

"But James sneaks – "Al caught himself. "I mean, James knows all the secret passa – I mean . . ."

"Does he now?" Uncle Harry quirked an eyebrow. "I'll have to talk to him about how he came by that knowledge." He shared a meaningful glance with Rose's parents. "But let me correct myself: there's nothing that can get you out of that castle except your own free will."

"Which is why," Hermione said sternly. "We don't want you two wandering around at nights. We heard some interesting things from your Uncle Neville and Hagrid, and – "

"It was only once, Mum!" Rose whined.

"Mmmm," Hermione responded, pursing her lips. "Be that as it may, until this is all figured out, you two are not to leave the castle."

"Not even to visit Hagrid?" Al asked piteously. "Muffin was really starting to grow on me." He pasted on his "hopefully tragic "look.

"Except to visit Hagrid," Aunt Ginny amended, rolling her eyes. "You can stop with the face, Al."

"But only during daylight!" Ron said. "When you're less likely to get into mischief."

"We got into plenty of mischief during the day, as I recall," Uncle Harry said with a smile.

"Even so."

"We won't leave the castle," Rose said sincerely.

"Except to visit Hagrid," Al added.

"Right. It's not as though we want to go looking for trouble!"

"When you're in this family," Uncle Harry said with a smile, "Trouble has a way of finding you."

As usual, Uncle Harry was right.

_**Author's Note: **_

_Hello again everyone, and thanks for reading! Thanks especially if you favorited myself or this story – I love knowing that people are interested in seeing where it goes! And thanks especially **especially** (Microsoft Word keeps trying to tell me I can't repeat word, but whatever) thank you if you've left a review. I read all of them, they often light up my day and make me think, and I do respond to questions and/or concerns via PM. And I love feedback! Essentially, reviews are like warm hot chocolate for the soul. Or your hot beverage of choice on a cold day, whatever that may be. _

_I hope you're continuing to enjoy the story, and I hope I'm able to get the next chapter up more quickly! Hey, in my defense, I did get this one up more quickly than the last one, but I guess that just doesn't take much. _

_Thanks for stopping by!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12: Illuminated**

_**Disclaimer: **_ _The tea that I am drinking right now does not make me British. The fact that it's wonderful tea doesn't change that, nor does the fact that I drink tea at least twice a day. I will never be British. The fact that I am also currently eating peanut butter by the spoonful probably doesn't help. I don't know; in my mind, that's just not a very British thing to do, though it is certainly delicious. Moving on from my peanut butter. I am not British, I am not blond, I most certainly do not have children – in short, I am not J.K. Rowling. _

_I know. It pains me to admit it, too. _

_But I am not, nor will I ever be, the originator of the Harry Potter series and the Wizarding World. I claim no ownership over any of Ms. Rowling's fantastic characters, her beautifully detailed settings – in short, I do not and cannot claim any part of the world that she has created. I just like playing around in it _

_That said, I did write this. It took me way too long. I had to work very hard. I don't mind if other people want to use my ideas, but I would very much appreciate if you'd ask first! Thank you to those of you who have made such requests of me in the past – I'm nothing but honored! Enjoy this chapter!_

The process of returning to Hogwarts was, if anything, more chaotic than leaving it, which should not have been logistically possible. There were trunks to be loaded, sweets to be smuggled from Grandma Weasley, belongings to be remembered last minute and searched for frantically, belongings to be seemingly lost for good ("For the last time, Al, no one's seen your rubber wand. Are you sure you even brought it home?"), and of course, hugs and kisses and tears and parting words of wisdom, caution, or rebuke. Then there were trunks to be loaded, belongings to be lost again, compartments to be found, friends to be reunited, stories to be swapped, and robes to be forgotten until five minutes before they were due at Hogwarts, resulting in a flurry of activity and black cloth as all the students rushed to be in uniform before they arrived. Rose was exhausted before she'd even walked in the door.

She was also, rather perplexingly, missing one of her notebooks. Her parents had given her several at the start of the year, saying that carrying around rolls of parchment simply got to be an inconvenience (Hermione would know). Over the years, as Hermione had developed a rather special friendship with the fine folks over at Scrivenshafts', they'd worked together in developing a project near and dear to Hermione's heart. The final design was not much different from a Muggle sketchpad: thick sheets of parchment bound together at one end with thread that would never wear, or discolor, or fray.

They were unique and important and . . . _Merlin's earlobe_ . . . exams were approaching, and she _knew _her mother would disown her is she failed her first year at Hogwarts. Half of Rose was utterly panicked. The other half took a logical step back, pointed out to the first half that the missing notebook was for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and much of what they'd learned that year wasn't something she could record on paper. Unless Professor Jones planned to use exam questions like, "How many times have I used the word 'run' this year? What about 'duck'? Or 'dodge'?" Rose hadn't pegged her has the type, but she had been Moody's protégé; more than a little unpredictability could be expected. Mostly it irked her to have misplaced it.

"Maybe you left it at school, Rose," said Al as she searched her bag for the sixteenth time. "It's not as though you've had reason to take it out during the holiday."

"Yeah," said Rose uncertainly. "Maybe."

"Look, I'm missing my comb, and you don't see me worrying about it."

"You never use it anyway, Al. How do you even know you're missing it?"

"Because it's not where I left it."

"And where's that?"

"I don't know."

"How can you know it's not there when you don't even know where . . . on second thought, I'll not bother."

But a brief sweep of the dormitory yielded nothing. Well, nothing notebook-shaped. She did find Annabelle enthusiastically braiding charmed ribbons into Willow's hair. Katie was enjoying the hilarity of the situation by laughing herself into a stomach cramp in the corner; Willow seemed less than pleased.

"My parents found them on holiday in Copenhagen!" Annabelle gushed.

"The satanic ritual worship kind of holiday?" Willow asked dully.

"They don't do that in Copenhagen," Katie said, "It's actually quite lovely." She lapsed into giggles again at the look on Willow's face.

"They're supposed to carry a charm that makes your hair more lustrous – that's what my parents said." Completing the braid, Annabelle wrapped the end of a ribbon around Willow's hair and tied an overlarge bow. She tapped the center with her bow.

Willow's hair exploded.

The chaos that ensued mostly involved utter panic (from Willow), hysterical laughter and some potential bruising (Katie), some screaming (Annabelle), and resigned acceptance of a situation that was, once again, completely and utterly bonkers (Rose). Hair was everywhere. Still plaited from the crown of Willow's head, the length of the braid was now more on the scale of kilometers than centimeters. The braid wrapped around all the four-poster beds, rested on top of their still-unpacked trunks, and nearly suffocated Melisenda when she tried to open the door.

"Believe me, I don't want to be here either, but you lot have to at least let me in," she sniffed.

"_We . . . can't_!" Katie howled through gales of laughter.

"Is that . . . hair?" came Melisenda's horrified voice through the slight opening she'd managed to force.

"Put it back! Put it back!" Willow was yelling repeatedly. Annabelle stopped shrieking and stared dumbly at the shreds of ribbon she still held.

"Oh Merlin," Rose gasped, "IT'S STILL GROWING!"

With the imminent threat of Willow's hair actually taking over the school, Rose's missing notebook took a very distant second place in her mind. Even after they'd returned the braid to it's normal dimensions ("It's still heavier than it used to be," Willow grumbled), other things competed for Rose's attention. Namely: the state of her stomach (growling), the state of her dormitory (still a borderline natural disaster) – and, of course, the state of her homework (pristine, beautiful, and completely buried at the bottom of her trunk). With a return to school had come the sudden return to the forefront of her mind of everything she'd conveniently forgotten about over the holidays. And, oh Merlin, they hadn't yet studied their Potions travesty . . . er, assignment for the next day. She trusted Wistorren about as far as she could non-magically levitate him, and Dizzying Droplets weren't a cakewalk even with a competent instructor. It could only spell disaster.

At dinner, Scorpius also seemed eager to head for the library, and Rose noticed that he pointedly avoided even glancing at the Slytherin table. She looked over curiously, and noticed that Azalea Selwyn was just as judiciously avoiding looking her direction. Her eyes appeared red-rimmed, even from this distance.

"You and Azalea had another fight?" Rose asked.

Scorpius shuffled his feet under the table. "On our way here."

"About the same thing?" Al asked, looking concerned.

"She hasn't got the creativity to come up with anything else," Scorpius said acidly.

"Well, I certainly hope you didn't tell _her_ that."

Farther down the table, Melisenda Wilkes snorted into her pudding. "Of course he didn't. Malfoy hasn't got the guts."

Scorpius looked up with a curl to his mouth that would have made Rose cringe, but Al beat him to the punch. "It's none of it your business. Why don't you quit sticking your nose in?"

"Oh, look, Potter's playing the hero again. If your lapdog has something to say to me, let him say it himself."

"I can't imagine having anything to say to you at all, Wilkes," Scorpius said dismissively, standing up. He turned his back to her and ran his hand through his hair in a distinctly Potter-like motion. "Shall we?" he asked Rose and Al calmly. As they walked away, Rose could hear the beginnings of what was surely another all-out battle between Melisenda and Annabelle ("Maybe if you'd learn to keep your mouth shut, you'd actually have some friends in this House." "And I'm supposed to _want _that? You wouldn't even let me into the room this afternoon!").

After several semi-productive hours in the library, Al finally insisted that it was time for bed. He didn't care if they all accidentally gave themselves vertigo in Potions, he said, but he did want to get a proper night's sleep before he had to start Quidditch practice again the following night.

"That's right!" Rose exclaimed, "When's the next match again?"

Al rolled his eyes. "You're an embarrassment to the name of Weasley, Rose. Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw is at the end of February. But we've got to get the team in shape now if we expect to have a chance at the Cup!"

"The final match is right at the end of the year," Scorpius added, closing his books.

"Yes, I'd worked that much out, thanks," Rose said, irritated. "Sorry if I've been just slightly distracted lately. In case you've forgot, we've got a crazy person after us. Or the Hallows. Or, you know, both. My roommate's hair exploded today, I have to dredge all of my homework assignments out of the bottom of my trunk, and I _still can't find my notebook. _My humblest apologies for allowing all of that to sap the mental energy I would normally devote to Quidditch!"

"Hmmm," Al hummed skeptically. Then it hit him. "Exploded?"

"Violently." There was a long pause.

"I can think of six plausible ways that might have happened," Scorpius said finally, "And all of them involve Dark Magic." Rose rolled her eyes.

Despite Rose's assertion that she had no time to think about Quidditch, it did seem to be, well, everywhere. Now that holidays had ended, the February Quidditch match was the most exciting event on the horizon. Al started getting more attention than usual in the halls, and it wasn't because he was Harry Potter's son and Binns had altered his curriculum to include "recent history" – which he hadn't. Older Gryffindors that Rose only vaguely recognized would stop Al in the hall to discuss Gryffindor's odds in the Cup this year. Kimberly Ashfield and her fifth-year posse had taken to ruffling Al's hair whenever they passed. They said it was for good luck. Rose was never sure if Al went red from embarrassment, anger, or, well, something that didn't bear much thinking about. And perhaps most shockingly, James and Al seemed to be getting on better, and all (well, _most_) inter-family pranking had come to a screeching halt out of respect for the upcoming games. Or perhaps out of sheer exhaustion after the madness that always was Christmas holidays at the Burrow.

January passed in a whirl of snow; February passed in a whirl of pink ("I understand Valentine's Day," Louis was heard to say, "Everyone likes getting chocolate. What I don't understand is why she's _insisting _on Madame Puddifoots'. Whoever picked that incense should be suffocated in it; whatever madman gave those cupids stringed instruments should be garroted; and has anyone noticed that _pink _clashes horribly with _my hair_? _L'indignation!_ _Il est incomparable_!"). Dominique was seen trying to forcibly powder her brother's complexion so the clashing would not be quite so offensive. Victoire had to lure her away so that Louis could make his date on time.

Classes were also something of a wash that day. Flitwick spent the day teaching a melody charm for songbirds ("If you ever catch me trying to use this to impress a girl," Dax grumbled, "Disarm me, punch me, and then Obliviate me."). The warbling that filled the classroom was pleasant by the end of class, but even Rose admitted that she couldn't think of any real practical uses for the charm. Annabelle, of course, loved it. Wistorren had them making pink lemonade for some esoteric reason ("Maybe we're going to use it as an ingredient in another potion," Katie suggested gamely. "Sure, Katie," said Dax, stealing a ladlefull from her cauldron while she wasn't looking). But when tiny Viv Jordan from Hufflepuff asked if they could learn floral transfigurations that day, Callister gave her a look that could have petrified wood.

"In this class," he said, "We learn only material of real importance. I'll not fill your heads with more trivial ways to waste time. If floral transfigurations are what you want to learn, I suggest you look into attending Beauxbatons next year."

He assigned double homework that night. Al groaned as they left the classroom.

"How am I going to do this _and_ Quidditch practice _and_ go to the game on Saturday?" Rose knew he was looking for an easy way out, but she wasn't going to give it to him. Al was really quite clever, and she'd heard enough stories about her mother "helping out" Uncle Harry with his assignments to steel her resolve.

"You'll manage."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll be expelled, and see if I care."

"That's cold, Rosie. After all we've been through!" Al wailed dramatically. Rose stuck her tongue out at him, and got a snowball to the face for her effort.

The day of the Slytherin-Ravenclaw game dawned crisp and cold, but Rose didn't really give it much thought.

"I can't believe you're not going to the match, Rose," Connor said, "Isn't that against your family creed or something?"

"Maybe she just doesn't want to be seen in that state," Melisenda suggested snidely.

"What state?" Rose demanded.

"Oh, my mistake, Weasley, I didn't think anyone would _choose_ to go out in public looking like a banshee."

"Shove off, Wilkes," Al said without conviction, looking utterly distracted by the prospect of the match.

"I just have other things to do," Rose explained to Connor, who still looked skeptical. "I'll be at the next match!"

"You'd better!" Dax exclaimed. "It's Gryffindor-Ravenclaw! It'll decide who's playing the Cup this year!"

"Unless this match decides it first," Al said, and they were off, talking about point differentials and Snitches and Quaffles, gesturing animatedly toward the Slytherin table where Roxanne sat in her Quidditch robes, poking at her breakfast morosely. Rose took her chance to escape while she could, giving Roxy the biggest grin she could manage on the way out. She didn't particularly want Slytherin to win, but family trumped that when Gryffindor wasn't playing. And there had been the incident over holidays when Roxy had helped her escape Grandma Weasley's wrath after she'd filched a large amount of chocolate from the kitchen to bolster her own private collection.

Rose headed for Gryffindor tower, fighting a veritable horde of students heading towards the pitch. It wasn't that she didn't want to go to the game, or that she didn't care. It was more that she wanted the time and she wanted the castle to herself, or as near to it as she was going to get. She wanted to try the Deluminator.

So when the castle emptied and she finally managed to shake off Zeke, Rose wandered through the castle with the intention of getting lost. She wanted someplace where there would be no laggers, no students running to grab a forgotten scarf or hat, no chance of running into a ghost – someplace that was off the beaten path of Hogwarts, so to speak. She didn't want to run into anyone unwittingly. The Room of Requirement would have been perfect, but Rose realized belatedly that she had no idea how to get in, having been blindfolded when her parents brought her to the Feast. She felt more than a bit foolish for not having thought to ask. So, instead, she went wandering. She reached a part of the castle she had never seen before fairly quickly, and kept going, turning down the darkest corridors she could find – corridors where, even in broad daylight, candles flickered in sconces on the walls.

When she felt sufficiently lost, Rose brought the Deluminator out from under her robes and flicked it open. She took a deep breath and pushed the button.

_Click_.

A candle on the wall went out as the Deluminator swallowed a ball of light. _Click_. Another. _Click . . . click . . . click. _She was in total darkness. She took a deep breath. So far, nothing unexpected had happened. But what would the Deluminator do if it couldn't put out any more lights?

_Click._

A ball of light flew back towards one of the sconces, and a candle re-lit itself. Rose let out her breath. Well, that was anticlimactic.

After several more tries with much the same effect, Rose concluded that the Deluminator did absolutely nothing interesting, and that her father had likely performed a Tracking Charm of some sort on it, hence his interest in her carrying it at all times. She sighed and tucked it into a pocket.

She did keep one ball of light in there, though. Just in case.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

Ravenclaw beat Slytherin handily, which meant that that the match for the Cup was still uncertain for everyone but Hufflepuff, who would almost certainly not be playing. Either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw would have to lose the next match by a margin of at least three hundred points for Hufflepuff to have a shot at the Cup, which seemed unlikely at best. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw seemed to be fairly evenly matched at this point, though Gryffindor's team was still substantially younger.

Cousins began to pick sides as February turned to March, and the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match drew closer. Victoire was refusing to talk to any of her cousins in Gryffindor for fear of giving away some of her team's strategy, and Teddy, who could be found visiting Hogwarts at least a couple times a month ("To use the library!" he would swear. "Libraries aren't supposed to be used that way," Fred would snicker), was banned from watching his old team practice, as his loyalties were somewhat suspect. Roxy was staunchly supporting Ravenclaw – something about the possibility of Gryffindor also falling to Victoire's team seemed to satisfy her wounded pride. Molly, of course, was supporting her own House team. On the other hand, Dominique and Lucy had switched loyalties to Gryffindor once it became apparent that their team had no chance at the Cup. And of course, just about half of the Gryffindor team was made up of Potters and a Weasley, and Louis would be caught dead wearing his mother's old Beauxbatons robes before he supported another House.

Rose, of course, had begun the long process of gathering her notes for the eventual purpose of studying for final exams. James thought she was mad; he found her in the Gryffindor Common Room one night in mid-March, surrounded by notes and diagrams from Transfiguration, and even one match-needle hybrid. He laughed, of course, and said that her mother would have started in February. She was torn between fuming and laughing as he walked away, knocking Fred's inkwell into his lap (completely by accident, as he assured an ink-spattered Fred).

As March roared its way into April (that whole thing about lions and lambs didn't seem to apply to Howarts' geographical coordinates) tensions between the Houses and the Weasley-Potter family continued to rise and Quidditch practices grew more frequent and more exhausting for Al, there was no abatement in the amount of work the professors were assigning. Al was convinced that Callister was actually assigning _more_ work so that his Gryffindor students would be too exhausted to practice after classes. The only class where they could catch a break was Defense, where Professor Jones had apparently decided that they needed to run enough Physical Training exercises to heat the entire castle by proxy. Rose was secretly a little pleased by this, as she still hadn't been able to find her Defense notebook.

"For Merlin's sake, Rose, it's Physical Training for the next week anyway. Why do you need to find the notebook _now?_"

"Because it's driving me mad that I _can't_. It's been lost for months!" Rose shuffled more papers around in her bag. "_Ugh, where is it?_"

"Not in that bag," Al whispered unhelpfully. Aside from their whispered bickering, the library was near silent.

"Oh," Scorpius said softly. Rose threw a textbook across the table, then looked around guiltily to make sure Miss Clearwater hadn't seen her.

"It has to be in here somewhere!"

"Why can't it be somewhere else?" Al asked.

"Because I've looked everywhere else already!"

"You can't have possibly checked everywhere, Rose."

"Oh," said Scorpius urgently.

"Stop being pedantic, Al."

"I will if you stop being obsessive over some _parchment_. Don't we have more important things to worry about? Why else are we holed up in this musty place with a bunch of books that are older than _Great Aunt Muriel_ – "

"If I'm not interrupting . . ." Scorpius said, pointing up.

Rose and Al stopped fighting, as there was now a very large and very musty book hanging over their heads. It loomed in a threatening manner not normally possessed by books.

"What is it, Scorpius?" Al asked, leaning forward cautiously so his head wasn't directly underneath the book. Rose scooted her chair back half a meter for safety.

"It's the Stone," Scorpius said heavily, looking up and flicking his wand. The book fell to the table with a thud; Al moved his head just in time. "It's worse than we thought."

An inauspicious beginning to a conversation, Rose thought, and it didn't get better. Scorpius showed them the passage he had found in the ancient book he'd dug from some crevice of the library. The page edges crumbled, eroding slightly into dust every time they were turned. They had to be gentle, especially given the trauma the book had just survived, but what they found in the little they did read was alarming.

As they had thought, the Resurrection Stone had the ability not only to bring back the shades of dead relatives, but also to raise a fearful army of Inferi under the right circumstances, without all that pesky business of having to kill an army's worth of people. They were dismayed at this, but not surprised – the evidence had been pointing them in that direction from the start. The "right circumstances" were the alarming part. _When the world renews, then time is ripe _was mildly concerning.

"That sounds like springtime!" Rose whispered, alarmed. Already the ice that had sheeted the Great Lake since November had begun to melt. James, Louis, and Fred had taken to enchanting trees at random so that they would dump a load of heavy spring snow on unsuspecting students should they make the mistake of passing underneath a branch. After Connor was nearly sent to the Hospital Wing with frostbite, most of the school learned to steer well clear. Winter was fast losing its grip on the school.

"Springtime for zombies . . ." Al hummed. Scorpius shot him a bemused look before continuing.

_A force of darkness, pale flesh for dark deeds_ was close to flat-out threatening, but, really, why else would anyone _need _a zombie army? As Al pointed out, no one had ever raised an army of Inferi to help with the gardening.

It was the last part of the passage that drew Rose's eyes again and again. _Blood and bone of victorious foe_ really, really didn't sound too promising for the Potters or the Weasleys. She felt a chill run up her back.

And then there were the missing pages. As far as they could tell, there were three of them. It seemed likely that those missing pages gave more exact instructions for raising a full-on army of Inferi, assuming, of course, that the reader had the ever-elusive Resurrection Stone. Given the state of the book, it was impossible to tell when those pages had been torn out, but Rose had a sinking feeling it had been recently. With the break-ins to the Gryffindor dormitories she and Al had been subject to, wouldn't it have been easy for the perpetrator to make a stop at the Hogwarts Library before going off to leave obscure notes for a couple of impressionable first-years? Perhaps these pages were the goal all along, and the notes were just a distraction. But how would they know where the book was? How had _Scorpius_ known where the book was?

"Where did you find this book?" Rose asked suddenly.

"In the Restricted Section."

"How did you get in to the Restricted Section? _When_ did you get in to the Restricted Section?"

"Just now, while you two were bickering."

"_How_ did you get in to the Restricted Section?" Rose pressed.

"I forged Professor Binns' signature," Scorpius answered guiltlessly.

"That's dishonest!"

"Yes, well, Madame Pince _knows_ Binns is a ghost. If she's doesn't remember that ghosts can't hold pens, is that really my fault?" Scorpius tried for Al's trademark hangdog look, but utterly failed to repress his smirk.

"That sounds an awful lot like taking advantage of an elderly woman's failing short-term memory," Al observed.

"Are you saying you'd rather we not use the book?" asked Scorpius archly.

"I'm saying I think we should remember that trick in the future."

"Are you sure you were Sorted into the right House?"

"Are _you_?" Al asked, grinning.

"Not at all," Scorpius replied seriously.

"_Regardless_," Rose broke in, "This is bad." Al and Scorpius looked grim.

Bad it certainly was, but what could they _do_ about it? Unfortunately, the answer right now seemed to be _not much_. Of course, Rose did the sensible thing, and got a letter off to her parents that listed the book's title and a couple of relevant page numbers. Both of them worked for the Ministry; they were bound to be able to find a copy somewhere. Rose tried to put it out of her mind. After all, what else could she do?

Everything was waiting. Waiting for spring to come. Waiting for her parents to find something – _anything_. Waiting for Stone or whoever their mystery letter-writer might be to contact them again.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

At two o'clock in the morning on April ninth, Al sat bolt upright in his bed. Of course, Rose didn't know it at the time. She found out approximately twenty minutes later, when she woke up with a hand over her mouth and Al's voice in her ear.

"Rose," he whispered. Thankfully, having been raised in the chaos that was the Potter-Weasley-Lupin family, she didn't scream. She sighed. At this point, she was almost rather used to waking up this way.

"You're not supposed to be able to get in here," she grumbled. Weren't there some archaic rules regarding who could visit whose rooms?

"No questions," he whispered back. "Meet me in the Common Room in five minutes."

"All right, all right," she breathed, shaking her hair out of her face. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dim light, and now she did scream (quietly). "You brought _Malfoy _in here?!" Rose hurried to adjust her bedclothes.

"Actually," Scorpius whispered, "I brought _him_ in here."

"He got me past the staircase," Al added. In the next bed over, Katie groaned and turned. Rose made a shushing motion.

They had a brief but frantic non-verbal conversation, and agreed that they'd meet in the Common Room. Rose tried to mime "I have to find something," but wasn't sure how well she'd pulled it off. She hunted frantically through her trunk. Half-successful in her search, she hurried on tip-toes past Melisenda's loud breathing and Katie's sighs down to the Common Room.

"Why are you only wearing one slipper?" Al asked, yawning.

"I couldn't find the other," she said. "But more importantly, why am I out of bed?" She stifled a yawn.

"There's this thing," Al began. "I'm not really sure . . . well, I thought of it in my sleep but it makes sense. I promise. Well, I think."

"Al, the last time you had a dream-epiphany, we would up in a tree, in France, covered in purple scales," Rose pointed out, she thought rather reasonably.

"And I'll never live that down, will I?"

"How in the name of –" Scorpius began.

"Shhh," Rose said. "Priorities, Malfoy."

"Point is," Al continued, "Point is that, well, I think . . . "

"Small words," Scorpius advised.

Rose couldn't help laughing. The whole situation was ridiculous. She, in a robe, with a single slipper, curled in an armchair, lazily twirling her wand through her fingers. Al, more disheveled than usual, pacing back and forth in front of the fire. Scorpius, who she thought might have upped his snark factor simply to keep himself awake. He kept nodding against the arm of the sofa. All of them, sneaking out of their rooms as they'd been doing all year, as their parents had done so many years ago. _Circles,_ thought Rose,_ it's all circles. _

Al drew a deep breath and continued. "_I'll mend Grave mistakes._ I think we were wrong about it. We've been assuming all this time that letter-guy's – "

"We'll just call him 'Stone' for convenience, shall we?"

"That _Stone's_ goal is to raise an army of Inferi. I don't think it is." Al drew a deep breath and continued, "So there's a person, out there somewhere, who wants the Hallows. The Stone. If you have the Hallows, you become the 'Master of Death,' whatever that means. If you have the Resurrection Stone, you can raise the dead. At least sort of. So someone knows that our family knows where the Stone is, and they're trying to find it. Makes sense. But that last part we read in the book - Rose, do you have it?"

Rose unfolded the parchment she'd used to copy from the ancient book. "_When __the world renews, then time is ripe, and may raisest thou a a force of darkness. They will be pale flesh for dark deeds. With the Unnamed Stone, in cypress grove, with b_lood and bone of victorious foe - "  
><em>_

"That part," said Al. "Victorious foe."

"What of it?" asked Scorpius.

"If it's just some random bloke off the streets trying to raise an army of the dead, why are Rose and I being _threatened?_'When serpent falls prey to the Stone' - from the Hey Diddle Diddle letter, remember? Or 'When Stone does for Flower half-grown.' Why actually threaten our family - without even asking for the Stone's whereabouts, mind you - unless - "

"Unless our parents are the 'victorious foe,'" Rose finished for him. _Circles. It's all circles. _

"Right. And they were victorious against -"

"Voldemort," Scorpius said quietly. Al nodded. No flames flickered across their faces; the room was totally still and silent at this time of night, and it felt as though the world was holding its breath.

Rose shook her head. "They're trying to raise Voldemort. Oh, Merlin, are they _mad?"_

_"_You've just gotten that _now?" _asked Scorpius.

"So what happened in the Forbidden Forest – " Al began.

"Kind of makes sense now, yes," Rose finished for him. "Oh, Al. I don't like it. But I think you're probably right."

Al sagged a bit. Clearly that wasn't the response he'd hoped for. "What do we _do?_" he asked desperately.

Rose was completely at a loss. It was one thing to contemplate fighting an old enemy of the family's – Marcus Flint, the bully Quidditch captain; Peter Travers, the erstwhile potential Death Eater. These were manageable. Well, all right, probably not for a couple of first years armed with the ability to make pink lemonade. But their parents wouldn't have batted an eyelash taking them down, Rose was sure of it.

But _Voldemort?_ How could they face him? How could he be back? How . . . Rose's mind spun with denial and questions that she didn't want answered.

"You could Floo your father," Scorpius suggested.

"Sure! Let's Floo him right now."

"I never said right now; we can wait until – "

"I can see how that conversation'll go. 'Hey Dad, you're sure old Voldy's really dead this time, right? We're using the definition of dead that means 'all dead,' not 'mostly dead and possibly re-zombified and wandering around the Hogwarts grounds? You didn't happen to bury the body somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, did you?'"

"I probably would have chosen slightly different phrasing," Scorpius said, and Rose didn't have to be able to see his face to know he was suppressing a smirk.

She felt like screaming. "This is not funny!"

"I know," said Al. Rose shot him a look that he undoubtedly could not see in the dark, but he knew her well enough to know she was giving it. "Won't-shut-up mode."

"So," said Scorpius. "What _are_ we going to do?"

"Well," said Al, "Easter hols are in a week. Rosie and I are going home; I'm sure we'll be able to corner our parents at some point."

"I have two requests," Scorpius said.

"Yeah?"

"Floo me if you find out anything important."

"Of course," Al said.

"And try not to use the word re-zombified."

"_Malfoy!_"

"I know, Weasley, I know," Scorpius ducked as a pillow from the chair came flying at his head. "It's not funny."

_**Disclaimer:**_ _You know what else isn't funny? 9 months. Wait, no, 10 months. I'm so terribly sorry. Suffice to say that a lot has changed in my life (most of it is good!), and I've just been insufferably busy. _

_After all this time - thank you ever so much to those of you that are still reading. There is an end to this story. Mostly it's in my head, but it's slowly making its way onto my computer. It will happen, and in the meantime - thank you for being wonderful readers. Thanks especially to those of you that have favorited or followed this story. I still see those messages in my inbox and my heart lifts a little. And, of course, thanks especially especially to those of you that leave reviews. I love seeing what you think of the story, and I take all feedback seriously! I also tend to respond to questions and concerns via PM, as some of you know :) _

_I hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Thanks again for sticking with me. _


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 13: An Inconvenient Invasion**

_**Disclaimer: **__For the last twenty minutes, I've been in my kitchen. This is not unusual; I enjoy both cooking and baking. What is unusual is that, for the last twenty minutes, I've been completely failing. I'm not used to failure. I'm not good at failure. But for the last twenty minutes, I've been trying to make whipped cream out of half and half, and anyone with a shred of whipping experience will tell you it's just not possible. They're right. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I hope and pray and rail against having to go to the grocery store to pick up heavy cream, I will never make whipped cream out of my sad, sad foamy mixture (which includes a teaspoon of wasted vanilla). You know what else I'll never do? I'll never claim to be J.K. Rowling. Because, you know, I'm not. I didn't write Harry Potter, folks, I just like playing in Rowling's garden. So that's that. And now, I'm headed out to go pick up some gosh darned heavy cream so I can eat the cake I've been staring at for two hours. _

"It's not Voldemort," Uncle Harry said.

"Are you sure?" Rose itched to ask, but the look on her mother's face stilled her tongue. Silence stretched across the table.

"It's not Voldemort," Uncle Harry repeated. His hand went to his fringe. "I would know if it were," he added softly.

"But I can see where you could get that idea," Rose's mother said.

"It was Al's idea," Rose muttered.

"Just because it was wrong doesn't mean it was a bad idea," Hermione said to Al, but it was Rose's hair that she patted.

Rose rolled her eyes. Her fingers involuntarily beat blues scales up and down her leg. She looked at the pie sitting on the table and thought seriously about whether or not she wanted another slice. How many hours had it been since dinner? Six?

She and Al had planned this not-so-carefully before returning home for Easter holidays. Cornering parents late at night was a tried-and-true Weasley technique for getting attention that was otherwise distracted. And Rose could tell that her parents, at least, were distracted. Both sported dark shadows under their eyes that spoke of late nights. Hermione's study held even more books than usual, crowded into unexpected corners and tottering in towers on the shelves. Rose suspected strongly that her mother had expanded the space in her study to accommodate the extra tomes. Such expansions were rather common practice in wizarding homes, but Rose was a bit surprised: her mother had usually opposed such magical adjustments in the past. ("I just don't want to, all right, Ron?" "But, Hermione dear, everyone does it. Just a couple meters here or there wouldn't hurt!" "No, Ron." "Don't you want to be able to fit more books in your study? Why can't we just –" "For the last time, Ron, no." "But _why?_" "Because bigger on the inside is such a _cliché_.") Rose's father was mystified, but he let his wife have her way and made quiet adjustments to the broom shed that Rose was _never, ever to tell her mother about._

But no, the study was definitely bigger than it had been the last time Rose was at home. When Rose perused the titles of the books, she was somewhat surprised to see that most of the ones her mother was reading now them dealt with the Hallows. They were on the top of every stack. They were closest to her mother's desk. They were clearly the priority. And they were crumblingly ancient, but it was no wonder; it had been a long time since anyone other than Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Xenophilius Lovegood had taken the old legends seriously.

Clearly, her parents were as preoccupied by the Stone letters as she and Al were.

So in the end it hadn't been very difficult at all for Rose to convince her parents that they should have the Potters Floo over for a late-night discussion during which the term "re-zombified" was, to Al's credit, never uttered. They just had to wait until James tired himself out attempting to combust his Charms homework (Hugo, strange child that he was, had a completely self-imposed bedtime of nine-thirty pm, and would cry if forced to stay awake later). And now, here they were, at two o'clock in the morning, in the Weasley kitchen. The six of them huddled around the table where Rose had eaten dinner nearly every night of her childhood, discussing Voldemort.

Aunt Ginny sat ramrod straight next to Al, her hand protectively resting on the back of his chair, a fierce glint in her eyes. Uncle Harry sat a little apart from his wife, rubbing his forehead as though he could make sense of everything if he could just commune with the past through his scar. Rose's mother sat across from him, staring deep into the nothing over her husband's shoulder, brow wrinkled and fingers tense on the table. And Ron slumped in his chair, clutching his coffee and staring straight ahead with an ugly look that threatened nothing pleasant for whomever was daring to threaten his daughter. Rose looked at each of them and wondered if this is what it had been like, back when Voldemort had returned and the fate of Wizarding Britain rested on the shoulders of a few teenagers, an old man, and an extraordinarily bitter Potions professor.

She wondered if it had ever felt as completely unclear to them as it did to her now – what did all of it mean? And how could they fight someone they couldn't even find? In the dim candlelight the whole situation felt surreal. They had eaten with Grandma and Grandpa Weasley _at this table_ six hours before . . .

And it was only Monday. Both Rose and Al felt strongly that these sorts of conversations should happen on a Monday. Mondays were exactly the kind of day when you'd figure out the true, terrifying intentions of the potential madman (or woman) who was potentially (well, almost definitely at this point) after you. Unfortunately, the conversation held in low voices around the Weasley's supper table did not accomplish that goal. Or any others, for that matter.

Well, all right. Uncle Harry said it wasn't Voldemort. And with the whole Horcrux thing, Rose was fairly inclined to take his word on that. It seemed that everyone was pretty well convinced that "Stone" referred to the Resurrection Stone, not a person. And when Rose asked if that had given them any leads, all of the adults went completely shifty, which meant that they'd likely found the bit about Inferi as well. It was probably her mother that'd done that, Rose thought with pride, conveniently forgetting that Scorpius, and not she, had actually found the bit about the Stone in the Hogwarts Library. But with all the time they'd had, it seemed odd that hers and Al's parents hadn't been able to come up with more than a trio of eleven-year-olds with no Invisibility Cloak, no experience fighting Dark wizards or witches known or unknown, and twenty-one months of magical training put together. Which made her think that there was definitely something that the adults were hiding. Which made her frustrated.

"What's the point in having secret late-night meetings with four of the great heroes from the Wizarding War if you _can't even get anything done?_" she'd asked Al the next morning, after huffing over it all night. Al, however, hadn't eaten yet, and so was completely nonverbal in his response. _Useless. _ Al and Mondays were absolutely _useless_.

It turned out the rest of the week wasn't much better.

Mostly, there were quiet days. It was strange, Rose thought. Normally the holidays brought to her mind the smells of the Burrow, the sounds of heartfelt and somewhat chaotic family greetings and reunions, the best of the madness that her family embodied. But this year, this Easter, was different. The family crowd was smaller than it was at Christmas, when everyone came home or faced Grandma Weasley's wrath. Many of Rose's cousins had elected to stay at school to study for exams, or at least that's the story they told their parents. The glint in Fred's eyes told a different story; Rose suspected he planned to spend more than a little time troublemaking. Rose, James, and Al had returned home, as had Victoire and Roxy. Rose suspected that Victoire came home more to see Teddy than to be with her parents, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She couldn't help but giggle, though, when she saw how avidly James avoided even looking at Victoire when they happened to be in the same room.

The result of the decreased family size was that Al and Rose had a good deal of time to themselves, at least for a couple days. They spent it primarily slogging through the inordinately large amount of homework the professors had set for them ("Well, you do have your final exams coming up, dear," Hermione reminded her daughter, smiling reminiscently. "Only you," Ron grumbled, "Could wear that face and talk about exams."). Rose and Al agreed that it would be completely mad to spend all of their precious holidays in studying, though, and so they took frequent breaks.

The breaks often ended in chaos. Lily was going through an "accidental-on-purpose" magic phase. As she was only nine years old, her latent magical abilities were manifest only under times of extreme emotional duress – occasions readily supplied by her older brothers. The advantage of her specific brand of magic was that it wasn't particularly strong, though it was markedly _weird_. The disadvantage was that Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny couldn't take her wand away to prevent it, as she didn't have one yet. Rose left the house with a sparking rash, a tattoo that Aunt Ginny swore would wear off eventually, and a newfound appreciation for Hugo and his stick-in-the-mud ways.

"It's ok," Al assured her, "James said last time his hands were crumpets for only a few hours. I'm sure it will wear off soon." This was less than reassuring coming from someone sprouting a gourd from each ear. "Just try to stay away from things that can burn, right?"

But then, a red-faced James chased Al through the house at 2:07 pm on Wednesday, as Al had stolen a draft of an unsent love letter to Kimberly Ashfield. Lily, her skin colored a ferocious purple, tumbled out from under their worktable at 3:24 pm on Thursday ("I swear, I've no idea how she got there," Al said with an almost straight face). And, as usual, Hugo ended up Spellotaped to the wall at one point. On both Wednesday and Thursday. But Thursday he'd totally deserved it.

On Friday, Grandma and Grandpa Granger came over for dinner. That meant that most of the day was spend removing all of the magical wards around the house so they could get in, cleaning the house, and hiding anything that Grandma and Grandpa Granger might accidentally set off, ingest, or shatter. It was only nights when they were coming over that Rose realized exactly how much magical paraphernalia was in her house. She wondered exactly how they'd managed all the years that her mother had been attending Hogwarts. Grandma and Grandpa Granger always just seemed so . . . terrified around anything magical. And these were the people that raised one of the smartest witches alive today?

Rose didn't have long to wonder, though, since her mother set her to work rubbing Stasis Solvent on all of the paintings in the house.

"But Mum, the paintings are harmless!"

"Your grandparents don't like it when they move, Rosie," Hermione said. Rose almost argued, but her mother's hair was in an abnormally frizzy bun on top of her head, and she was holding a bucket full of PermiSharp knives, neither of which boded well for the next person to cross her. Rose grudgingly grabbed a sponge and got to work. She hated going through this routine every time Grandma and Grandpa Granger came over.

It wasn't as though she didn't like her mother's parents. They were always very kind. Rose just wished that they weren't so scared of anything related to the magical world; it wasn't a fear she could share, or even understand. They winced when Hermione or Ron talked about work; they shuddered when the Potters were mentioned; they twitched a little whenever Hogwarts came up, though, really, Rose thought anyone sensible might have a similar reaction. She just never knew what to _talk_ about when they were around. Dinners were always filled with awkward silences. And they insisted on asking her how school was going, but were only interested in hearing about subjects like _maths_ or _reading_, which were hardly worth mentioning when she went to a Muggle primary school, and not even worth thinking about now. Grandma and Grandpa Granger were most comfortable talking about teeth; sometimes Rose thought the only thing they liked about the wizarding world were Toothflossing Stringmints.

Still, at least once they were done with dinner, Al came over. Rose finished her homework for the week while Al played Exploding Snap against her father – something he claimed to need after every dinner with Grandma and Grandpa Granger. That, and a smoking glass of Firewhiskey.

Rose, Al, and James were set to leave for Hogwarts early Sunday morning, so they were meant to spend their Saturday packing, eating one last home-cooked meal with the whole clan, and sleeping. Rose was to sleep at the Potters' house that night, allegedly as a way to separate she and Hugo ("They've been unbearable all week," she overheard her father telling Uncle Harry. She couldn't see the look Uncle Harry was giving Ron in response, but she imagined that it involved an arched eyebrow, a tilted mouth, and the clear subtext _have-you-ever-seen-my-sons-together? _"Hugo got Spellotaped to the wall _twice_," said Rose's father. "My sons sprouted edible body parts whenever Lily got hungry, Ron."). She was also meant to be helping Al finish up his homework; he'd lost Exploding Snap so spectacularly to Rose's father the night before that he'd been too depressed to work on his Potions essay.

The packing, writing, and eating went fine; the part where they were supposed to sleep was a disaster. Still, Rose thought in retrospect, the week had been far too boring, and she ought to have expected it.

She woke up slowly, blinking through the last shreds of a strange dream, to knocks on the door. Her door? Too far. The front door. _What?_

It was not yet light outside. Who could be knocking at this hour? Whoever it was, they were very insistent. The knocks came in a repeated staccato rhythm – _knockknockknockknock . . . knockknockknockknock_ – punctuated every so often by what sounded like someone leaning heavily on the doorbell. Rose wondered briefly why Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny even had a doorbell; it wasn't at all common in Wizarding families, and its presence had caused a fair share of trouble in earlier years. Very few of their fully-magical cousins could seem to get the hang of it. Perhaps one of them – but no, they'd just have Apparated, or used the Floo, if it was really that important to wake the Potters up at this hour. Rose swung her feet off the bed and looked around in puzzlement. Neither Uncle Harry nor Aunt Ginny had answered the door yet. She poked Al awake.

"Whassahapppawakeeewhyyyyy?"

"_Shhhhh!_ Someone's at your door, Al."

"Huh?"

Rose heard footsteps rush down the stairs. She heard a muttered curse (the non-magical kind), a muttered _Muffliato!_, and then Uncle Harry's voice carried up the stairs. "Ginny! It's the police!"

"The _what?_"

"The . . . the Muggle Aurors!"

"What are they doing here?"

"How should I know?"

"How did they find us? We're supposed to have wards all around the house!"

"I've no idea, Ginny."

And then, from Harry and Ginny simultaneously, " . . . _JAMES!_"

Rose heard James's voice from the top of the stairs. "I swear, it wasn't me this time."

"You said that last time the Department of Magical Law Enforcement showed up."

"I'm innocent!" James maintained.

"Harry, can we Confund him?"

" . . . There are five of them."

"Harry, can we Confund _them_?"

"We can't just Confund every Muggle that shows up here accidentally."

"That's what my brother does!"

"I'll be sure to mention that to Hermione."

Rose poked her head out of the room in time to see Ginny stride by, cinching a robe around her waist. "Plan M on my signal."

"Plan M?" Rose asked Al as Aunt Ginny walked downstairs.

"Contingency plan for 'Unavoidable Muggle,'" Al recited.

"You have a _contingency plan_ for this?"

"My Dad's the Head Auror. We have a contingency plan for everything," Al said.

"I'll go get the Skiving Snackboxes," James said resignedly.

Uncle Harry opened the door. Rose could see at least three pairs of shoes from her admittedly poor vantage point. "Hello, officers. Can I help you?"

"What took you so long?"

"Pardon?"

"Why did it take you so long to answer the door?"

"It's three o'clock in the morning, officer."

"And?"

"And my family was asleep. Is there a problem here?"

"We've received a complaint about this address."

"This address?"

"This is 37 Pever Elm Lane, correct?"

" . . .Yes."

"And you are Mr. Harry Potter, I presume?"

" . . .Yes."

"This is the house, boys!" There seemed to be a brief scuffle. "Sir, might I ask you to step aside. We're going to have to search the house."

"_Search the_ . . .why do you need to search my house?" Rose could almost hear Uncle Harry force himself to remain calm. Contingency plan or no, there was a lot of clearly non-Muggle paraphernalia around the house. She thought about the _Mimblus Mimbletonia_ in the kitchen, the charmed coffee mugs in the sitting room, hers and Al's Hogwarts textbooks and parchment all over the table, and nearly swore. If they found any of it, Uncle Harry would have to memory-wipe the lot of them. And the Ministry had gotten a lot less forgiving about that kind of thing since Rose's mother joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Rose beckoned to Al to follow her. She opened the door silently, and they met James at the top of the steps. From here, they Rose could see that the man in the uniform with the most shiny attachments at the front seemed to be favoring his arm in a way that Rose was certain he hadn't been before the scuffle she'd heard with Uncle Harry.

"We have a warrant, sir. You'll find it's all in order," he said, handing Uncle Harry several sheets of paper. Uncle Harry barely glanced at it. He and Ginny shared a look.

Rose, Al, James, and Lily stood at the top of the steps, trying to draw as little attention to themselves as possible while at the same time watching the scene below unfold. Aunt Ginny's hand twitched oddly in her robe pocket, and red sparks flew from the lamp closest to the doorway. The policemen ducked; James went into motion.

"All right," he said, clearly relishing the situation in a way that was probably unhealthy, "Lily and I will eat these, Rose and Al will hide everything. Good? Good. Now go." He clambered noisily down the stairs, looking for all the world like a scared thirteen-year-old boy. If scared thirteen-year-old boys tried and failed to hide their maniacal grins and the magic wand shoved up their sleeve.

Rose's mind whirred into overactive motion. They had to get downstairs and hide . . . well, practically everything. What if the policemen suspected what they were doing? What if they couldn't hide their things in time? Wasn't this illegal? She looked at Al, whose eyes were wide. They looked at the blur that was James.

"He's really excited," Al observed quietly. "He's always wanted to meet a politeman."

"Po_lice_man," Rose corrected automatically.

Lily squinted at the unwrapped sweet James had placed in her palm, then shrugged and darted downstairs after her brother. What else was there to do? Rose squared her shoulders and followed.

Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry stood in the doorway. Rose saw Al's parents as an impenetrable barrier to the policemen waiting in a quiet huddle outside; the policemen probably thought they had control of the situation. James tugged on his mother's robe.

"Mummy, what are the men doing outside?" Ginny patted his head absently. "Mummy," James said, flashing Al and Rose a brief grin and putting something orange in his mouth, "I think I'm going to be sick."

Rose and Al backpedaled quickly, almost bowling Lily over in their hurry to get out of range. Everyone in the Weasley clan grew up knowing exactly what a Puking Pastille looked like. _Brilliant_, Rose thought appreciatively. Lily pulled out her purple piece of candy and placed herself strategically.

"Mummy," she wailed. "I think I'm going to –" and she fainted, blocking off the entrance to the kitchen.

"You're family is brilliant, Al," Rose whispered. "Mad, but brilliant."

"Appreciate later, Rosie."

"No, seriously, how many times has your dad made you practice this?"

With the distraction of projectile vomiting and dramatic swooning, Rose and Al moved practically unnoticed. In the confusion, they dashed first into the living room and grabbed armfuls of anything that looked like it didn't belong in a Muggle movie. Orders of Merlin, first class. Floating tea mugs ("Won't leave stains on your tables!"). An overly friendly blanket.

"What do we do with it all?" Rose whispered.

"Oh bollocks," Al said, arms bulging around the blanket, "I can't remember this part!" It probably didn't help that the blanket was actively trying to snuggle him.

Rose looked around the room quickly, her eyes lighting on the mantle over the fireplace. "Floo it to my parents'!" They shoved everything they could into the fireplace, and Rose tossed the powder in.  
>"The Holt!" Rose called as quietly as she could, and green flames burst into being.<p>

"Oh, officer, I'm so sorry about your shoes!" Rose heard Aunt Ginny say loudly. "Why don't you clean them off before you check the kitchen?"

"The kitchen, Al! The kitchen!"

Self-cleaning pots and pans, self-searching cookbooks, and every candy they could find from WWW went into the Ever-Expanding pot. Al and Rose lugged it as best they could over to the Floo and sent it on.

It felt as though they were moving at a frustratingly snail-like pace, but Rose knew that just five minutes had passed. Still, she wondered just how much more food James had in his stomach, and just how much longer Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry could keep the policemen distracted before they'd insist on completing (well, starting) their search.

"Is she . . . Are those _leaves?_" Rose heard one of the policemen ask.

But the only space left to clear downstairs was the dining room, and now they truly were pressed for time, as Rose heard James being shuffled in the direction of the bathroom. Rose and Al's books were scattered along the table, parchment and quills strewn haphazardly. Al had completed his essay at the end of the night and declared himself too tired to clean up. His solution would be obvious to any eleven-year-old boy: he left everything where it was – his and Rose's notes strewn haphazardly, ink-spots dotting the table like he'd been finger-painting, books opened and closed and halfway in between. Rose and Al gathered everything they could, made one last, mad dash back to the Floo, and sent it through. They were about to creep back up the stairs and into their beds, to await innocently the impending invasion once the police had finished downstairs, when Rose remembered.

"Al! Your Potions book!"

"What about it?"

"You threw it against the wall earlier!"

Al swore quietly. They rushed back into the room. The Potions book was lying on a chair; Aunt Ginny must have picked it up. But there was no time to Floo it to the Holt – the policemen were searching the sitting room. Rose grabbed her schoolbag and shoved Al's Potions book in. The half-folded tablecloth it was sitting on went with it, but they'd just have to deal with that later. The state of Aunt Ginny's linens definitely took a backseat to the International Statute of Secrecy.

"You have _more_ children?" a very bedraggled policeman asked as he rounded the corner into the dining room. Rose shoved the book further into her bag with her foot and smiled at him as innocently she could.

"Hello, Orricer," she said.

"_Officer,_" Al corrected quietly.

"My son, Al," Uncle Harry said quietly, "And my niece, Rose. Do you need to investigate them as well, or may I send them back to bed?"

"Sir, we want this to be over just as much as you do," the policeman said, "Trust me." His eyes flicked into the corners of the room. Rose saw Uncle Harry give a couple of the paintings distinct warning glares before they could start complaining about the intruder. Rose dug her nails into her palms. _Don't check the bag, don't check the bag, don't check the bag. _She yearned to perform a Disillusionment charm on the bag, on Al's Potions book, on herself, but performing underage magic in the direct presence of a Muggle was most definitely forbidden, and the last time she'd attempted the charm, Katie'd had to wear scarves for days to hide the reptilian markings on her neck.

"Young miss."

Rose could swear that every one of her muscles stopped functioning. Including her jaw. "Er?"

"I have to check the chair behind you."

"Er." Rose shuffled herself and her bag out of his way.

"Lots of homework, eh? I remember those days."

Rose made a noise that might have been, "Eep," and tried really hard not to be noticed.

An hour later, the police had finished searching the house. They stood, shuffling scuffed shoes and dabbing at various stains on their uniform. The one with the shiniest badges on his uniform was shaking his head. "We apologize again for the inconvenience, Mr. Potter. Our information – "

"May I ask what you were searching for?" Uncle Harry interrupted.

"It must have been important for you to wake our whole family up at this hour," Aunt Ginny noted mildly, though if she'd been aiming that tone at Rose, Rose would be running as quickly as possible in the opposite direction. Aunt Ginny got polite right before she threw the term "polite" entirely out of her vocabulary and replaced it with things like "snarling," "merciless," and "most creative use of that hex I've ever seen."

"Confidential, I'm afraid," said the man with the shiny badges and the shinier forehead. "But it's not here, so we'll be on our way."

"And if I were to call on your superior tomorrow, would it still be confidential?" Uncle Harry asked.

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Potter, but you try that if you'd like."

"Please leave our house now."

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh _**bbh bbh**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_ _**bbh bbh **_

Rose's mother and father turned up very confused via the Floo not long afterward. It turned out that Hermione had wakened to some thuds in their house, only to find Hugo staring wide-eyed and silent as the Potters' belongings appeared _en masse_ in his living room. "I just wanted a glass of water," he kept whispering, holding his mother's hand as she and Rose's father talked with the Potters. They eventually sent the children to bed, but Rose could hear the faint sounds of their continued conversation in the kitchen downstairs long after she had resigned herself to sleep. One question burned in her mind. _But how did they find the house?_

Luckily, it seemed as though Al and James were having the same thought, because James turned up not long afterward with three sets of Extendable Ears and a remarkably clear conscience for someone who stole them from his uncle.

" . . . absolutely think this is related to the Hey Diddle Diddle Letters," Rose's father was saying, "And everything else that's been happening with Rose and Al this year."

"Hard to believe it's not," Uncle Harry said, "But the policemen were all definitely Muggles."

"What do they – whomever they are, because I'm not convinced you have the right of it, Harry – what do they gain from having Muggles search your house?" Rose's mother asked.

"It's a classic stakeout technique," Uncle Harry said immediately.

"But they know the kids will be going back to Hogwarts," Aunt Ginny said, "So –"

"And they've made it clear they know where their rooms are," Ron added.

"Right. So what good does a 'stakeout' of our house do?"

"I don't know," said Uncle Harry, and Rose thought she had never heard him sound so young. "I don't know, and I don't understand. Half the time I think we're dealing with someone completely off their rocker."

"But the intricacy of the Charms they must have placed on all of the letters, and everything else so far," Hermione said, "If it's beyond the capacity of my entire department to trace –"

"It's not your fault, Hermione," Aunt Ginny said.

"My question," Rose's father said, "Is how did they even get past your wards, Harry?" There was a long pause.

"The wards are still intact."

"I thought you had a set of Muggle redirection wards?"

"We do. It's all still intact." Another long pause.

"This house is Unplottable still – "

"Yes."

"So how . . .?"

"I'm going to go check on the children," said Aunt Ginny abruptly, and James was out of the room in two seconds flat, trails of Extendable Ears behind him like streamers.

It took Rose a long time to truly fall asleep. She could hear the rise and fall of voices continue downstairs, and she yearned to hear what they were saying. But James didn't come back to Al's room, and Rose thought that her parents' heightened state of anxiety might lead to some overreaction if she were caught eavesdropping.

Her internal monolog was a relentless drumming in her head, just one question, over and over and over. It wasn't _How did they get in?_, though she'd spent a fair amount of time on that one too. No, it was _why? Why did they get in?_

_**Author's Note: **__In the time since the last chapter was published, I have spent a summer out of my home country; moved to a new city; started what some people call a "new chapter" in my life, but I call mostly "refusal to grow up;" purchased and attempted to play a new instrument; successfully baked a cake; and unsuccessfully attempted to make whipped cream. I list these things not as an excuse – I've mostly given up on excuses for why each chapter takes me so long – but because I'm pretty excited about my life right now, and I clearly have a complex about sharing things with random strangers on the internet. Hi, random strangers! Oh, also, one more thing that may actually interest y'all: I've started writing more. Every night, actually, I make a point of at least looking over this story. It is still very much in progress in my brain space. _

_Anywho, I know I've said before that I write all the time, but this is only the second time I've actually posted my writing . . . well, anyplace. I write mostly for myself because in the end I'm pretty selfish, but I love hearing what you all think! Reviewing is, of course, a fantastic way to do that, and I greatly appreciate all of your reviews. You can also favorite or follow this story, in which case I'll just assume you liked it, and that makes me happy too! I wish you all the loveliest of lovely days, and thank you so much for reading this all the way to the end! _

_-bbh_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Hey Diddle Dee**

_**Disclaimer:**__ At the risk of seeming like a bad influence, let me admit I needed half a bottle of wine to hit "publish" on this chapter. I have nothing clever to say. I am not J.K. Rowling._

"There is absolutely no reason for you not to go back to Hogwarts today, James," Aunt Ginny said, "Hogwarts is the safest place you could possibly be." She bustled around the kitchen a lot like Grandma Weasley, Rose noticed. Except that she was rather taller and narrower. And, of course, except that Rose had never seen Grandma Weasley's kitchen look so barren.

"It's Unplottable!" Lily said.

"So's our _house_," James muttered, "I've been _traumatized_, I can't go back to school!" He seemed to be looking for a plate, or hoping one would magically appear in front of him. He checked under the table, coming up just in time for Aunt Ginny to place one right under his surprised nose. She narrowly missed clipping his head.

"Oh, James," Aunt Ginny sighed, ruffling his hair and smiling proudly, "If anything, you traumatized _them_."

"It was part of the Contingency Plan!"

"I know." Aunt Ginny leaned forward, grinning, "Brilliant, right?"

"Sorry about the mess, though," James said, unapologetically stacking more toast on his plate.

"And I'm sorry we broke all those mugs," Rose said, "We weren't really thinking. Mostly we were just shoving things through as fast as we could go."

"You were brilliant, Rosie," Aunt Ginny said. "You too, Al."

"I'm sure we'll have our things back in order soon," Uncle Harry said, looking around the mostly-empty kitchen. Practically the only things left were bread, marmalade, and an old Muggle toaster oven that Uncle Harry had inherited when his Uncle Vernon had died ("Yeah, all right," Rose's father had said when he'd seen it, "But why a . . .whatsit . . . a _toaster_?" "Petunia's probably on a diet," Uncle Harry had said, shrugging. Ron looked mystified. "Sometimes Muggles think that eating bread is bad for you," Rose's mother clarified for him, giggling at the look of horror on her husband's face. "So it's the one thing she knew she'd never use," Uncle Harry continued, "And Dudley probably has one already, given that he's, you know, a Muggle." "Well that's . . . nice," Ron said. "Hey!" Uncle Harry exclaimed, his face lighting up, "Do you think your dad would like it?" "Please don't give my father anything he could use to accidentally set the house on fire, dear," Aunt Ginny had said.)

"Can't I stay and help out?" James whined.

"Kimberly turned him down," Al whispered _sotto voce_. "He got the letter yesterday." Three pieces of toast flew at his head. Aunt Ginny calmly cast a _Protego_ without looking up.

"I think," said Uncle Harry, "You'd be of most help by being as far away as possible, James."

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh**_

Hogwarts was much the same now as when they'd left. James, Rose and Al took their time getting to Gryffindor tower – Lucy stopped them along the way to ask what all the fuss had been about the night before. Apparently Uncle Percy had heard about some sort of disturbance from work that morning. Rose didn't wonder that Lucy was so concerned, then: Uncle Percy had a tendency to overstate things. His letter to Molly and Lucy had probably come close to hinting that the house had been razed to the ground and the apocalypse was nigh.

True to form, Lucy spent a good deal of time asking James, Rose, and Al if they were all right. She was worried they'd been frightened by the experience; James, eager to prove he wasn't frightened by anything, seemed to take this as a personal affront. He huffed a lot when she said that they could come talk to her at any time, he rolled his eyes nearly continuously, and when Lucy offered to ask Victoire to nick them chocolate from the kitchens, he couldn't help himself.

"I've been nicking food from the kitchens since first year! And anyways, we could just ask Victoire ourselves – she's our cousin too, you know."

"Oh, and do you really think she'd say yes to you, _James_?"

"Ugh, you know that's not what I was – Lucy, we're fine! It wasn't even scary."

"Listen, I was just trying to be _nice_, and – "

"Well, you've _been _nice, thanks, and – "

"James!" Rose said.

"_What?_"

"Just because you're in a fit over Ashfield – "Al began, at the same time as Rose said, "She's just concerned – " and James made an extremely rude gesture at the both of them.

A loud whistle sounded. All three turned to Lucy, who lowered her wand sheepishly. "What I really wanted to ask, James, is if you'd show me where the kitchens are." She switched her schoolbooks to the other arm and put her hand on her hip.

James's entire attitude changed instantly. "You could have asked Molly," he said, grinning.

"I did. She said she signed some ridiculous contract – "

"It is _not_ ridiculous. As the first Weasley (_"Potter," _Al mumbled, as James flippantly ignored him) to find the entrance to the kitchens in this generation ("_Aside from Teddy,_" this also from Al, also ignored), it is my prerogative to show or not show said entrance to whoever ("_Whomever,_" this time from Rose) I choose."

"Yes, but you also won't let anyone outside the family show us, so we're left with practically no choice except to follow your stupid contract," Lucy said.

The contract had been in place for as long as James had been at Hogwarts – that is to say, close to three years. It was more or less magically binding, depending on how many of James's claims were to be believed. It simply stated that only James could show members of the family the entrance to the kitchens, and that he would only do so for a price. Said price was, of course, completely up to James's discretion and creativity. Rose didn't know exactly what kind of prices he'd exacted in the past, but she was willing to bet Galleons that the week (two years prior) Dominique had gone wearing clown makeup and the month (barely a year ago) when Molly had been unable to dispense advice without growing ugly, pulsating boils had been related. This was all hearsay, of course, as she hadn't actually witnessed either incident. However, James really was quite clever at magic when he wanted to be; Rose had no desire to test how magically binding this contract was, which is why she'd not attempted break it. So far.

Lucy sighed and fiddled with her book cover. "You're going to make me ask 'officially,' aren't you?"

James inspected his nails.

"Fine. James Sirius Potter, will you please do me the favor of showing me where the kitchens are?"

"In return," James prompted.

"In return for which I will owe you a misdeed, action, or magically-enforced promise which will be determined by you and your discretion alone, so help me Merlin."

"And you," James nudged again.

"And I solemnly swear to uphold my end of the bargain, and not to show any other member of the family under any circumstances, particularly not Albus Severus Potter."

"You're a git, James," Rose observed acidly.

"I added that last part this year," said James cheerfully, turning to Al. Al, Rose noticed, was looking remarkably calm, though he did raise his eyebrows in a very Malfoy-esque manner at this last addition. James's grin might have split his face. "All right, Lucy!" He took Lucy by the shoulders and steered her back toward where they'd come from. "This is where we leave you two," he called over his shoulder, "Unless you'd like to take your chances, Rose."

"Not under any circumstances," Rose answered, affronted for Al's sake even if he didn't seem to be all that bothered by his brother's passive aggression. Well, all right, it was actually rather aggressive aggression. Passive wasn't exactly James's forte.

"Your call," James shrugged. "Now, Lucy, the entrance to the kitchens is a well-guarded secret. It's actually right next to the entrance for that new passage to Scrivenshaft's. Well, it was new two-ish years ago, and . . ." James's voice faded as he guided Lucy down the hall. Rose and Al watched him go.

Al giggled into his fist, and Rose looked askance at him. "Teddy showed me where it was last time he was here," Al explained once James had safely rounded the corner, "Mostly to spite James, I think."

"Did you have to commit yourself to anything utterly ridiculous?"

"Nah. Teddy said he trusted I'd do damage on my own. I'm not sure if that was a compliment."

"Why didn't he show me?"

"He wasn't sure you'd be able to contain yourself when we passed the passage to Scrivenshaft's."

"I would too!" Rose argued for the sake of arguing against her (undeserved) reputation. But secretly, she was just looking forward to the look on James's face when he found out.

_Could someone's jaw actually hit the floor? _she found herself wondering as she and Al continued on their way to the Common Room. Hogwarts was pleasant when it was this empty, and yet it felt strangely unfamiliar. The halls were quiet still. Most of the students wouldn't return until later tonight, just in time for dinner. The halls would throng again then, but for now, there was no clattering as students accidentally knocked into the empty suits of armor; there was no pounding of footsteps on stone; there was no idle chatter, or anxious murmuring, or whispered spellwork. It felt, Rose thought, as though she and Al were wandering around past curfew (minus the egregious rule-breaking), except of course there was sunlight streaming through the windows and Rose could see the budding trees in the distance. The only other time Rose had seen the halls this empty, this echoing, this light, was when she'd wandered off during the Quidditch game to try out the Deluminator. Except this time she was in one of the main corridors, and not purposefully lost in one of the more obscure passages of the school.

Al elbowed her out of her reverie. "Look who's back early," he whispered.

Melisenda Wilkes was standing to the side of the corridor ahead of them. If there had been anyone else in the hall, Al probably wouldn't have even spotted her; she leaned against the wall between two of the suits of armor, shoulders hunched over something she held in her hands. But she was clearly talking to whatever she held, and in the otherwise silent corridor, her voice was a focal point.

"What is she _doing_?" Rose whispered back. Al just shrugged. They drew closer, and began to hear the edges of Melisenda's phrases.

"No . . . can't get you in . . . today won't work . . . too late . . ." Her head snapped up suddenly, and she rushed to stash something small in her robes. "Potty and his Weasel," she said with malice.

"Very original," Al deadpanned, "I'm certain no one in the family has ever heard those before."

Rose was more interested in what was in Melisenda's pocket. "What were you just using?"

Melisenda's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"What's in your pocket?"

"If you're looking for spare change, you should try crying to Mummy and Daddy first. Or have they finally realized what a waste of space you are?"

"What is your problem, Wilkes?" Al asked angrily.

"No problem, _Potter_. Except your nosy cousin – what happened, Weasley, did you run out of books to stick your nose in?"

"Are you trying to insult me for _reading_?" Rose said almost absent-mindedly, still trying to catch a glimpse of whatever Melisenda had tucked in her robes. Melisenda folded her arms tightly and stepped out from the wall.

"You're right. At least you _can_ read. Everyone knows Potter would have failed out of this place by now without you muttering over his shoulder." She tried to shove her way past them.

"_What_?" Al spluttered. He had folded his arms too. He and Melisenda made a strange pair in the empty, echoing hallway. Rose folded her arms too; she felt left out.

Professor Callister took them all off guard when he strode around the corner, looking none-too-pleased. Of course, that was generally his expression. It may have even been his pleased expression. It was difficult to tell.

"Why are you three skulking around here?" Callister asked.

"Us three?" asked Melisenda, clearly horrified at the association.

"You three Gryffindors, yes. Do you see anyone else here?"

"We're not skulking, sir, just –" Al began.

"As the Head of Slytherin House, I know exactly what skulking looks like. I will repeat the question only once more. There is only one appropriate answer, and for your sakes, I hope you have it. Why are you three skulking around here?"

"We were just heading back to the Common Room, Professor," Rose said, grabbing Al and pulling him along. She grinned at Callister and hoped fervently that Al was pulling his angelic face.

"I just came from there myself," Callister said softly. "I strongly recommend you continue."

Rose took his advice and took off down the corridor with Al in tow. She walked as fast as she could without – she hoped – seeming desperate to get away. She thought she heard Melisenda stalking behind them and determined not to turn around.

If any of the three first-year Gryffindors had looked behind, they would have seen Caligula Callister examining an area of the castle wall very closely. They might have seen him pull out his wand and tap a few stones. And if they'd turned at precisely the right moment, they would have seen him vanish into the wall.

"That man," Rose panted as they approached the Fat Lady's portrait, "_Fenestrada_ – thanks! That man is seriously creepy."

"Wasn't Melisenda right behind us?" Al asked as he climbed through the portrait hole.

"You were with Wilkes?" Willow asked from one of the couches, "Voluntarily?"

"Of course not," Al laughed, "How were your hols, Willow?"

Willow, for one, was happy – or, as happy as she ever was – to redirect the conversation. But Rose's thoughts were elsewhere. She hardly cracked a smile as Willow bemoaned her family's colorful Easter traditions. She didn't even notice James tromp back into the Common Room, but his whiplash-induced yelp as Louis pulled James into a corner yanked her back to the present. Only a few moments later, Fred joined the two of them, and, instead of hunkering down and scheming as Rose would have expected, proceeded to grab James by the scruff of his neck and haul him up the stairs.

"Wonder what that's about," she whispered to Al, who shrugged. The words, " . . . completely inappropriate . . ." floated down the stairs after James and Fred. "Did Fred just tell James that he's being completely inappropriate, or am I hallucinating?" Rose asked. Al shrugged again. As long as James (and the various byproducts of his pranks) were out of Al's hair, he didn't much care.

Willow looked balefully at the stairway. "They've probably gone to fully explode our dormitory and finish the job." Rose chuckled; it was true that, between them, Fred, Louis, and James had managed to cause various degrees of ruckus and destruction in most of the rooms of Gryffindor Tower. Thus far, the first-year girls' dormitory had been exempt, though Rose wondered privately how much longer that would last.

They continued to talk while Rose and Al waited for Scorpius and decided they were far too lazy to unpack their trunks until at least after dinner. They couldn't really discuss much in the meantime with Willow there, but Rose was content to wait until Scorpius returned. It was strange, but she really wanted to get Malfoy's take on the whole Muggle police invasion. Rose still had to remind herself every once in a while that it was completely all right to be friends with him. Not that she'd told her parents how close he and Al were becoming.

It was barely midafternoon, which meant that students were slowly trickling back from their holidays; Dax and Connor arrived less as a trickle and more as a noisy burst. They'd traveled together, as Dax's house didn't have a Floo connection. This was Dax's second trip by Floo, and he was very excited to have gotten it right this time – apparently on the way home he'd been one hearth off and ended up practically sitting on a very surprised, very shriveled old woman. It was a good thing he'd gotten it right this time; Rose didn't know where one hearth farther than Hogwarts was, but she was betting it was cold and isolated, with some lovely vistas of moors and not much else.

Having raucously celebrated Dax's Floo success, Dax and Connor disappeared upstairs. Rose turned to Al, who was predictably reminiscing about his first time using the Floo.

"Remember when – "

"Yes, Al."

"And the clabberts –"

"Yes, Al."

"Man, Aunt Luna is _weird_."

Dax and Connor ran back down the stairs, no longer celebrating.

"Oi, Potter, what'd you do to the room?"

"What?"

"The room. Someone's made an awful mess of the room, and you're the only first year that got back before we did."

"Why would I mess my own room?"

"You're an agent of chaos," Dax said seriously.

"What?"

"Scorpius says so."

"What?"

"All the time."

Al rolled his eyes at Rose and sprinted for the stairs. "If James put something explodey in my trunk . . ." he said to a bemused Willow as she headed downstairs.

"That would explain the state of our dormitory as well," she said to Rose in passing.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, I thought I'd said something earlier. Listen, if you and the horde you call a family are going to make a habit of this, could you give me a bit of warning? I've got ink over half of my clothes."

Rose just looked at her.

"Not that it matters much, as they're all black," Willow added grudgingly. "If you need me, I'll be in the Library, trying not to drip ink on my homework." Rose noticed for the first time that the couch had a growing dark stain where Willow was sitting.

_Could_ James have snuck something into her trunk? Rose darted up the stairs.

Her trunk was open; that was the first thing Rose saw. Her trunk was open, and very nearly empty, which was unfortunate mostly because it was not Rose who had emptied it. She stalled in the door. Robes were strewn on the floor; quills and parchment haphazardly decorated the carpeting; her trainers were slung over a windowsill. An inkwell lay in scattered shards by Willow's bed. Rose's bed, thank Merlin, was untouched, the curtains still drawn around what was surely the only unaffected haven in the Gryffindor first-year dormitories.

It looked like James's room.

Rose would have asked herself how this had happened if she hadn't already known the answer. She ran a hand through her hair. _James_. Well, and probably Louis and Fred as well, to be fair. _Gits_, she thought irritably, and trudged over to start cleaning up. It wasn't even _funny_, she reflected. She folded her robes. Strawberry ice cream explosion? Funny. She retrieved her trainers and unknotted the laces. Throwing up on a police officer? Amusing and necessary – a twofer. She plucked shards of the inkwell from the carpeting. Sticking Al to the ground? Hilarious; Rose could admit that, even though she'd been caught in the crossfire. She straightened out her homework assignments and a few stray pages of notes. Where was the humor in this?

By the time she had finished cleaning up, Rose had arrived at a conclusion she didn't often reach: she was going to tell her mother. She was almost positive that this was the work of some combination of her cousins, most likely James and Fred, as she's practically _seen_ them headed towards the future-scene-of-the-crime not half an hour previously. Did they think she was _stupid_ enough not to see through the ruse? Fred, mad at James for being "completely inappropriate"? – she snorted – unlikely. Rose was fuming. _It wasn't even funny_.

Hermione had a reputation in the Weasley-Potter-Lupin clan. If anger was necessary, the kids were sent to Aunt Ginny. If incomprehensible lectures spattered with "_Mon Dieu!"_s would get the point across in some way, they went to Aunt Fleur. If they were after cookies, they went to Grandma. But if you really wanted someone to feel the full moral weight of what they'd done; if you wanted them to spend the next several hours or days slinking guiltily about, afraid to even think about their horrific actions; if you wanted them so stewed in remorse as to be practically immobile, then you sent them to Hermione. It was a talent, Rose's mother would explain, that she'd developed in her long years of close contact with Uncle Harry and Rose's father. Half the time she wasn't even mad at you, she would explain – she was simply doing this on request, or in return for a promised favor or her parents' favorite Toothflossing Stringmints, which, no, she hadn't forgotten, she'd just neglected to pick up this time, and she was supposed to see them and . . . well, no matter. She would look at the child in front of her apologetically, and the moral torment would begin.

Rose thought with absurd satisfaction of James's future mental anguish at the hands of her mother. The buoyancy of that thought got her through, and she hummed tunelessly as she finished clearing the floor of detritus. She was being sadistic, she thought, not feeling very guilty about it. A small, easily quashable part of her mind recognized that she'd now effectively cleaned through the contents of her trunk, and still had not found her notebook or her missing slipper. She didn't notice there was something else missing as well.

It had been five hours since she'd left Al's house, and though several pins were settling into place, none of them had dropped yet.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh**_

Back in the Common Room, Rose found Al and Scorpius discussing the finer points of revenge.

" . . . when he's haunted by a Caterwauling Krumpus," Al was saying as he made small strangling gestures with his hands.

"I have difficulty believing even Weasley has the skill to – oh! Er. Hello – "

"You're right," Rose said briskly, "I've no idea how to do whatever Al is suggesting."

"That's probably for the best. I don't think any of it is legal."

"I've suggested nothing he doesn't deserve," Al said, arranging his face into his patent angelic pout. He wrinkled his eyebrows. "Was that too many negatives?"

"And how were your holidays?" Scorpius asked, clearly looking to change the subject.

"The polite invaded my house," Al responded, his anger at James easily displaced. Rose stifled a laugh as she tried to imagine an anthropomorphized adjective invading Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny's house. He would wear a cravat, she decided.

"The . . .?"

"The police," Rose said. "They're like Muggle – "

"I know what the police are, Weasley."

"Well, pardon me for being surprised, Malfoy."

"James puked on them," Al said.

" . . . I'm sorry?"

"It was all part of the contingency plan."

"Did you ask earlier why I told Connor and Dax that you're an agent of chaos?" Scorpius asked pointedly. Rose giggled.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh**_

Rose spent what felt like half of dinner apologizing again to her roommates about the mess. Willow's elbows left spreading black spots along the table, Annabelle looked as though she'd been sprayed with glitter, and Katie wore a rather shell-shocked expression. It only served to add to Rose's theory that this particular "prank" just _wasn't funny_. She fumed some more as she ate her steak and kidney pie. Al didn't seem too pleased either: he wielded his knife with unusual malice. His fit of pique probably wouldn't last long, Rose reflected. Al had an endless capacity to forgive his brother, which was likely aided by the fact that he and Rose had already started plotting a more realistic revenge, involving the very real Hermione as opposed to the questionably extant Krumpus.

Even so, when James finally joined the Gryffindor table for dinner, Rose and Al felt obligated to give him the cold shoulder. He noticed almost immediately.

"What's in your knickers, then?" he asked almost as soon as he sat down with Louis, displaying his unerring instinct for mangling standard idioms. Fred, sitting further down the table, looked over.

"The usual," said Rose.

"Why'd you mess with our stuff?" said Al. He always was more direct.

"The stuff in your knickers?" James asked with what appeared to be genuine surprise.

"Don't be a prat, we know it was you three."

"We three what?"

"You three _idiots._ You did something to Rose's and my trunks, and then they exploded."

"It wasn't even _funny_," Rose snapped. "It was just an awful mess."

"Look, I've no idea what you're –"

"I'm telling my mother on you," Rose said. James went pale. He opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"Don't you think that's a bit unfair?" Fred asked, "I mean, yes, James is a right prat, but no one –"

"You're in on this too, Fred, don't think we didn't see you two – "

"I don't even know what you're talking about!" James exclaimed. "I didn't touch your things!" Scorpius's head was swiveling back and forth as though he were watching an exceptionally fast-paced game of Quidditch. Willow watched warily from down the table, the inky black at her elbows spreading slowly.

"James, I'm not stupid," Rose began.

"Of course you're bloody well not stupid! Doesn't make you right!" James's face was growing redder. Rose took a deep breath. She looked at his outrage, at Fred's surprise, and Louis's obvious confusion, and her stomach sank.

"It really wasn't you?" she asked quietly.

"I really don't know what you're talking about," said James.

"For a change, no," said Fred.

"Do you really think I'd be this modest?" said Louis.

Rose looked at Al.

"Oh, no, Rosie, you don't think – "

"We should go," said Rose, getting up. Fred, James, and Louis looked at she and Al in confusion as they hurried away from the table. Scorpius folded his napkin carefully and followed them.

"Oi!" James called, "If it was that Wilkes girl, I will personally handle her!" he turned to Louis, "Her sister Wendy's a real piece of work, too."

"Melisenda can't have done," Annabelle said. "They're getting back late from hols."

"But Al and Rose said . . ." Willow was saying as Rose dashed out of the Great Hall.

Rose felt a strange tingle in her fingers as she and Al rushed back to the Gryffindor dormitories. She'd gone from anger to fear so fast. It was as though her veins were thrumming; she didn't like it. Al kept asking questions, but she almost couldn't hear him. His voice sounded tinny in her ears. All she heard was thrumming and footsteps and echoes and the voice in her head. _Why didn't you check your bed_? She could see clearly in her mind's eye the dormitory as she'd left it. Newly cleaned, with three of the four-poster beds' curtains flung back – and her own bed, closed off. _Did I leave it that way before?_

She was up the stairs. She hadn't blinked in maybe three minutes. There was her trunk, newly packed, slightly askew. There was Annabelle's bed, Katie's, Melisenda's, and Willow's – curtains all drawn. There was her bed, curtains closed. She knew what she would see before she drew the curtains – or at least, she dreaded it.

A folded sheet of paper lay on her pillow.

She practically flew to the Common Room without even opening the letter.

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh**_

"Have you got them?" Al asked again, too loudly. Scorpius hushed him; it was well after hours, and it wouldn't do for anyone to find them down here tinkering with the fire.

"Just a moment, Al, for Merlin's sake. This isn't _easy_, you know."

"It's just Floo," Al grumbled.

"Yes, but this fire isn't normally connected," Scorpius said. "It's actually rather impressive that Weasley is managing it this time," he continued grudgingly.

"Got it!" Rose whisper-yelled excitedly, and stuck her head into the fire. "Ouch, wait, not yet." She stuck her wand in and hurriedly whispered an incantation.

"Remind me why we can't just go through ourselves?" Al asked.

"Because this is easier to set up," Rose said, "And this way, your parents will have to do half the work instead of me doing all of it."

"Don't pretend I didn't offer to help," said Scorpius.

"Don't pretend you'd know how," Rose shot back, wiping slightly toasted hair out of her face.

"Of course I'd – "

"Hello?" said Uncle Harry's head from the fireplace.

"Oh, brilliant, you've come through!"

"Hello, Al. Big emergency? Your . . . uh, 'invitation' was really . . . insistent."

"Sorry, that was me," Rose said sheepishly, "I may have overcast it slightly. First time, you know."

"You are your mother's daughter," Uncle Harry said, smiling. "So what's happening?"

"We've got more letters," Al said. "About the Stone."

Uncle Harry's mouth went straight. "What do they say?"

"We've got them here," Al hurried to the couch that Scorpius had scuttled behind as soon as the Floo connection started to work. "We're not really sure what this guy –"

"Or girl!"

"- or girl – means by these. They've given us a place, maybe it means they know where the Stone – "

"They don't know where the Stone is," Uncle Harry said.

"But . . ."

"Just one second, Al, your mother's calling," Uncle Harry turned his head. Rose could still see his ear and part of his jaw. She could see his jaw working and hear his voice, distant and echoing in the flames. "Ginny, hold on, I'm talking to Al and . . . what do you mean, "missing?" What's missing?"

Aunt Ginny must have responded, but Rose and Al couldn't hear her. Uncle Harry, with one ear out of the fire, apparently could. Rose saw his jaw clench.

"How can it be missing?" he asked, his voice tense and urgent-sounding, "It was just here!"

There was another pause. Rose and Al exchanged looks.

"And you're sure it's the one? The Hal – " he broke off, looking fully at Rose and Al. "Al, Rosie, something's come up. I've got to go."

"But, Uncle Harry – "

"We'll finish this later," he said, and disappeared with a _pop_.

Heavy silence settled over the Gryffindor Common Room as the _pop_ faded into slightly ridiculous echoes. It was the kind of silence that had its own inertia. And it sat.

"You don't think he meant . . .," Al said, almost unwillingly.

"The Stone," Scorpius said thoughtfully. No one reacted appropriately to this statement.

"It was difficult to understand him," Rose said, knowing she was lying. She'd been the one closest to the fire; Uncle Harry's words echoed, but she knew what she'd heard. Still, "Maybe we misunderstood."

"He said 'hal,'" Al began, "Maybe he meant halt. Or, um, halters."

"Could have been anything," Rose agreed.

"And he seemed sure that they don't know where the Stone is."

"Quite sure."

"And he said 'missing,' but maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe –"

"No," said Scorpius.

"What?"

"Don't be absurd. You know exactly what your father meant, Al. I could hear it through the upholstery."

"I don't think we can really _know_ –" Rose began.

"I've no idea why you're going along with him, Weasley. I really don't."

_Because I didn't __**want**__ to be right. _Rose said nothing. She pointedly avoided Al's pleading glance.

"What do we _do_?"

_I don't know._

"What does it even _mean_?"

_I don't want to know_. Rose stared stonily at the fire. It was dying. Already the flames were lower than they'd been when Uncle Harry had left; the coals burned more red than yellow. And Rose tried very hard not to know what the most recent letters meant, though of course her brain was working about a thousand times faster and harder than normal – which may have explained why she was hyperventilating a bit.

"Rose?"

"I don't know, Al."

"Pardon?" said Scorpius, incredulously.

"I said," Rose stared into the fire, not rising to the bait of his tone, "I don't know, Malfoy."

"But you always – "

"It's obvious, Al," said Scorpius, apparently deciding to ignore Rose. Rose, for her part, was more than fine being ignored. She clenched her jaw and valiantly tried to ignore the conversation as Scorpius continued, "He's got the Stone, and he's baiting you."

"Which is why he gave us a time and a place in the notes," Al said. His voice sounded strained.

"Yes."

"So the best thing to do is obviously to tell our parents, but Mum and Dad – "

"Will have already left."

"And probably called Rose's parents as well. That's usually what happens, right Rosie?"

Rose remained silent. _If I don't answer, maybe they'll stop_, she thought irrationally.

Scorpius forged on valiantly. "Has anyone ever told you that your family is abnormally close?"

"Only compared to yours. Most families actually _like_ each other, see?"

"I'm beginning to."

And they continued. Al wanted to go to somebody – Headmistress Sprout, Professor Jones, Hagrid, Muffin. Scorpius wanted to wake James, Louis, and Fred. They talked each other out of it. Rose was sure their reasons were legitimate, but she wasn't listening. She stared at the dying fire. She knew she was reacting badly. Childishly.

_But I am a child!_

She had never expected it to get this far, this way. She'd always expected her mother to solve it, or her father and Uncle Harry to find the mastermind and . . . pulverize him, or something. Even knowing her parents' stories from their childhood – they'd never gone to an adult. They'd never gone to Ron's brothers for help (well, all right, except that one time with Uncle Charlie). That was the point of being at Hogwarts, wasn't it? Being away from parents and on your own and . . . and all she wanted was her father to save her.

_Childish_.

Rose thought back over the whole Stone saga. The whole thing had seemed unrealistic from the beginning. She'd thought of herself as having an Adventure, the way her parents and Uncle Harry used to have Adventures, but she'd never really considered how it would end. Her parents' usually ended with some big Confrontation, and Rose'd thought she was ready . . . but.

But every time there had been the slightest indication of confrontation this year, Rose had been terrified. Paralyzed, almost. Useless. It had taken Scorpius to get them out of the Forbidden Forest when they'd gone to look for Travers; it had been James, Al, and Lily who'd sprung into action when the Potters' house was raided by the police. All Rose had been good at was looking things up in books.

_You have your mother's brains._

She snorted. She could feel Al and Scorpius looking at her, but she closed her eyes tightly and envisioned the most recent letters. Words marched in an untidy, childish scrawl across her mind.

_Hey diddle dee, now you'll come to me._

Would she? Did she dare? She knew where to go; the anonymous sender had been kind enough to spell that out in almost crystal-clear language right below the rhyme. The Silent Shack – well, Rose supposed it was silent now, at least. The letter had seemed mocking at first, and nonsensical – of course she wouldn't go deliberately into danger! But now that hers and Al's parents were unavailable, who else was there to make sure the Stone wasn't used? And Al's letter had made their timeline clear.

_Hey diddle day, you mustn't delay._

Tomorrow's date had been written directly below. They had no time to wait. Rose clenched her fists. _Your mother's brains . . . Do you dare?_ It was really no decision at all.

"All right," she said, standing up, feeling for the comforting presence of her wand in her sleeve, "We're going."

Al paled, but nodded, easily convinced. He grabbed for his wand and reached for the letters as he stood up.

Scorpius stayed seated. He picked some ash off his robes. "That seems like a terrible idea."

"No one said you had to come, Malfoy," Rose snapped.

"Aw Rosie, don't be like – "

"I never said I wasn't coming." Scorpius got up slowly, pushing his hands on his knees as though standing was difficult for him. Rose rolled her eyes. "I just want to make it clear from the outset that I think this is a terrible idea."

"Well who said you were invited anyways?" Her words rang out louder than she'd intended. She regretted them almost immediately.

"I'd rather hoped we were past that," Scorpius said.

Rose folded her arms. "Fine."

_**bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh bbh**_ _**bbh bbh bbh bbh**_

It was surprisingly easy. That was probably one of Hogwarts' biggest flaws, Rose thought: student safety. The problem lay, really, with the whole concept of a "wizarding school:" put a group of magically gifted adolescents in close proximity, and they'd be sure to find some way to injure or endanger themselves. Spectacularly. Rose thought about this, turned it over in her head, acknowledged that she was probably being splendidly stupid and reckless, and then continued following Al down the corridor.

Rose couldn't fathom how her parents and Uncle Harry had never gotten caught at this. She was certain that they'd run into professors around every corner, that every creak of the old castle was a prefect bearing down on them, that every classroom door would open to reveal Peeves ready to cause trouble for them. Somehow, they snuck successfully through the quiet corridors. Their shadows wavered in the candlelight, but Al was remarkably sure of himself in guiding them.

They would take the new passage to Scrivenshaft's, of course. Both Al and Rose knew that there were other passages into Hogsmeade, or there had been at one point, but this was the only one they were sure of now. Part of Rose wanted to stop off at the kitchens and stock up on food supplies, just in case . . . but in case of what, she didn't know. She supposed that was her father's influence, the worrying about food. The thought warmed her.

After what felt like a small forever of tension and creeping and nerves, they reached the entrance to the passage. Appropriately, it was marked by what looked like a dropped book. When Rose leant closer, though, she could see that what looked like a book was really a colored stone that extruded from the floor. Al nudged her gently out of the way as he stepped on the book and pushed his wand into what had previously looked like a deep pockmark in the wall. Scorpius backed well up, as though he expected an explosion. It was nothing so dramatic. The book sank, and suddenly what had looked like solid wall crumpled like parchment around the spot Al had pushed. Al reached out and grabbed the edge of what looked like to be a giant sheet of stone-patterned parchment and pulled – it opened like a door or turned like a page. Rose's mind had trouble adjusting to what it was seeing.

The passage stretched before them, looking like nothing so much as a hallway papered with, well, parchment. A tri-tone whispered "_Lumos"_ and they were on their way, pulling the strange door shut behind them.

Now that they weren't in imminent danger of being caught by professors, ghosts, poltergeists, prefects, cousins, or some combination thereof, Rose's thoughts were drawn towards the horrible danger they were headed into. _What was I thinking? _was one thing that passed through her mind a lot. Each time it came up against a wall of _I have to do this_. She tried not to let her thoughts show on her face. She didn't even notice that she was playing piano scales on the inside of her large sleeve.

Scorpius seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "This is a bad idea," he whispered as they wound their way through the monotonous yellowish tunnel.

_Do you have a better one?_ Rose asked him in her head. In her head, he had no answer.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he hissed as they climbed out from the trapdoor into the long aisles of Scrivenshafts.

_Then who?_ Rose asked herself.

"This is madness," he opined as they made their way as silently as possible through the streets of Hogsmeade, all the way to the edge of town. The streets were empty this late at night.

_This is the right thing to do_, Rose rebutted in her mind.

"We're putting ourselves in terrible danger," he noted as the approached the Shrieking Shack.

Neither Rose nor Al had answered him out loud. Rose thought she saw the moment when Scorpius finally realized that they were actually serious about this. They paused outside the door. There were no lights from within the Shack.

"Better have our wands at the ready," Scorpius said, resigned finally as the door swung open smoothly.

He and Al entered first, and were halfway across the small room when Rose got her wand untangled from her robes and walked in. She raised her wand to look around. The light from their wands lengthened strange shadows, cobwebs and splintered furniture and who knew what else. Rose pressed further into the room, following Al and Scorpius. She thought she saw footprints in the dust, leading back towards the door . . .

"Put your wands down," a voice said. Rose spun, and became dimly aware that the door had shut silently behind her. She was preoccupied by the gun held in the hand of the tall, thin man next to the door; very conscious of the fact that the wrong end – the end that went "bang" - was pointed her way.

_**Author's Note: **__And there it is. I'm going to go drink a strong cup of tea._

_**Update to Author's Note, July 6**__**th**__**, 2014: **__I wanted to post a new chapter today. I really did. But it's not finished and it's far too long, and anyways I've pretty much got to completely rewrite it because it makes no sense. So, if you're out there, please know that I am working on this, and that I will have a new chapter out, certainly before the end of this month. _


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 15: Children of Stone**

_**Disclaimer: **__Yes, I know it's way past July. No, I don't have a time-turner to go back and fix it. Who do you think I am, JKR? Spoilers: I'm not. In an ideal world, I would have some witty disclaimer ready for this chapter, but I have to admit that I'm at a loss this time, so instead, I'll tell a funny story. _

_When I was in college, I was required to take an ethics class. It was awful: the professor was about 80 years old and hadn't modified his material probably since before my parents were born; he clearly cared too much about how much "respect" he was accorded by students, and too little about the material itself; and he had no concept of how to be an engaging lecturer. I wish there were a "but . . ." to all this, but there's not. During the course of the semester, we had to write six papers on various topics, one of them being plagiarism. These were not difficult papers to begin with, and to be perfectly candid, if you went to the professor and flattered him enough, he'd raise your grade up to an A no matter what you actually deserved. But there was one student in the class who just couldn't be bothered. After failing to turn in any of the six required papers, this student received notice that he was going to fail the course (I know, you're shocked). And since this was a required course, he would be thereby jeopardizing his ability to graduate. The student reacted by pleading strongly with the professor to give him one last chance; he'd turn all six papers in if the professor would just give him a three day extension. The professor obliged, and the student immediately asked one of his friends in the class to email him her essays as "examples" of the kind of work the professor expected. She, being more naïve than your average two-year-old, obliged. The student in question then took his friend's six essays, changed the name at the top to his name, and handed all six in to the professor, after which he was promptly expelled from the school. For plagiarism. In an ethics class. Where one of the papers was __**written about plagiarism**__. _

_And that, my friends, is why you should never plagiarize your work, and why I will never claim to be JKR when I'm writing. Well, that and other reasons. _

"You can't be serious," Rose said, perhaps unwisely. She dropped her wand all the same. Across the room, Al and Scorpius stood on the defensive, wands pointed at the man. Rose tried to think of spells that they might be able to use, but dueling was rather beyond the scope of their first year curriculum.

"Why are there three of you?" the man holding the gun asked. Rose couldn't see his face at all.

It was not what she'd expected. Rose looked at Al. Al looked at Scorpius. Scorpius looked at Rose. Rose shrugged, and then realized that probably wasn't protocol when you had a gun pointed at you.

"There are only supposed to be two. I only summoned two."

"Er," Al began awkwardly, "We weren't –"

"Summoned?" Rose squeaked.

"A spell from the book," the man said, lifting his chin slightly and and gesturing with the gun towards a table in the corner. It was one of the only recognizable pieces of furniture in the room; everything else appeared to have been reduced to firewood. The table teetered precariously toward one leg that was half the length of all the rest. She started when she noticed her missing notebook. And her slipper? There were several other things scattered over the surface, but the only true book Rose could see was large and garishly colored. In metallic silver writing that glinted in the wandlight, the title read _Henry Palmer and the Magician's Marble_.

Scorpius's mouth formed an almost perfect "o." Of surprise? No, Rose thought, it looked more like complete confusion. Well, he wouldn't be alone; Rose had, frankly, expected something different as well, and the Resurrection Stone had yet to make any appearance whatsoever. Scorpius raised his wand hand a fraction.

"Don't be foolish," the man said, and a click reverberated around the room. "I'd shoot her before you can say 'Abracadabra.' Put your wands down."

Al's mouth opened in horror (an expression Rose had seen often enough from him, usually in James-related incidents). Two wands clattered to the floor, and the room went dark.

After that, it was all very simple. "Leave your wands lie," the man said, and they did. "Follow me," the man said, and they walked the length of the decaying room, picked their way through a dilapidated hallway, and stood in front of a heavy door. "In this room now," the man said, and they went. "Quiet now," the man said, and they were. Because it was unthinkable that this was happening. It was outside the realm of all imagination, or all possibility. Held hostage by a man with a gun; unable to defend themselves against the crudest of Muggle technology – what kind of wizards were they, anyway? More importantly, what did they think would happen when they walked through that door? Rose berated herself for their poor planning.

"There are only supposed to be two of you," the man said calmly as he shut the door in their numb faces, "I'm really not sure what the spell will do with a spare." They could hear him humming and talking quietly to himself as he walked away.

What seemed like hours later, in the dark room with no windows and two decaying wooden beds, Rose finally spoke. "The full body-bind," she said.

"What?" came Al's voice.

"The full body-bind, _Wingardium Leviosa_, a Jelly Legs Jinx, a Stinging Hex, a Trip Jinx, _Locomotor Mortis_ – "

"He was aiming a gun at you," Scorpius said. "None of us were thinking clearly."

"But we _should_ have been."

"Our parents would have done," said Al gloomily.

They lapsed into a tense silence. Rose's scalp prickled at every small noise, every imagined footfall. Her fingers twitched scales up and down her leg like particularly gifted spiders. Rose could see hardly anything in the room, but she could smell enough to know that Aunt Fleur wouldn't have entered without a gas mask and a bottle of _Eau de Anything Better Than This_.

She tried to not think about how much mold was on whatever she was sitting on, and instead focused on what on earth had just happened. She sorted facts in her mind. Someone was after the Resurrection Stone. Start with that, always start with the basics. And now, presumably, someone had _got _the Resurrection Stone. Someone had waited for an optimal date of some kind – Rose couldn't remember from Astronomy class if today was anything special, but she knew from Scorpius's research that springtime was, for some reason, optimal. And someone wanted she and Al, seemingly for this whole "blood and bone of victorious foe" bit. And now, they'd got all three – the Stone, the spring, and the sacrifices. _Why_, she asked herself, _did I think it was a good idea to come here?_

_Because we were the only ones who knew_, she reminded herself. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny, and probably her parents as well, were off chasing the Resurrection Stone in the wrong place. Only she and Al, and Scorpius she supposed, had enough information to put everything together. And now they were here. And they had to put a stop to it.

Of course, the first step was to get out of this room. Er. Somehow.

Rose looked around as though a solution might suddenly present itself, despite the fact that the room was completely dark and she'd probably have missed a solution if it'd been dancing the Collegiate Shag in front of her face.

"So . . . uh. What now?" Al asked eventually.

"Well, obviously, he's got the Stone," said Rose testily. "And probably the world will end or something tomorrow if we don't stop him."

"We can't possibly know that the world will end," Scorpius said, but Rose was in no mood for reason at a time like this.

"He's got the Stone, he's got the springtime, and he's got us. It's not a good outlook."

There was a long silence.

"Wish Mum and Dad were here," Al said.

"Me too."

"Yes, let's keep dwelling on that instead of doing something useful," Scorpius said waspishly.

"At least our parents would be helpful!" Rose snapped.

"What are you saying, Weasley?"

"I'm saying that your parents would probably have sold out to Mr. Handgun by now."

"_Rose!" _Al interjected.

"Do you have a problem with my parents, Weasley?" Scorpius said, enunciating every word as though his jaw weren't quite properly attached.

"No more than you have with mine!"

"I've more of a problem with any stupid little witch who thinks she's better than everyone just because of something that happened - "

"_Scorpius!"_

"Oh, we're going to do this now, are we? Fine, _Malfoy_, I've a problem with any arrogant prig, son of an arrogant prig, who maintains some false sense of – "

"_WE ARE NOT DOING THIS NOW!" _Al's desperate yell echoed around the room. Rose and Scorpius stared at him in shocked silence. Well, Rose stared at the slightly darker patch of dark where she thought Al might be. The patch of dark that looked like it might have exceptionally messy hair. She unleashed mental daggers in what she thought might be Al's general direction.

Footsteps thudded down the packed earth of the hallway, and Rose realized that it had probably been incredibly stupid for them to be so loud.

"I knew this would happen, I knew this would happen, I knew it!" their captors voice seemed to be saying from the other side of the door. Rose pushed herself as far backward on the mildewed bed as possible, and felt her shoulders hit the wall. She tensed, waiting.

A small window she hadn't noticed earlier opened in the upper half of the door. For the first time, warm light spilled into the room. A grimy hand held a lantern up to the window, and a leering face came with it. Rose could see Al, huddled against another corner, and Scorpius, making himself unnoticeable by Al's headboard.

The flickering from the lantern threw the man's face into relief, and Rose saw their captor for the first time. She noticed first that he was very thin, his face sunken into the planes of desperation or despair. The skin stretched taut between his cheekbones and his chin, and his forehead bore wrinkled marks of worry that looked as though they'd taken up residence years before. His eyes were sunken and manic-bright in the light, wide and opaque as he looked at them looking at him. His pupils were huge. He smiled a thin smile. Rose pegged him as somewhere between her parents' and her grandparents' in age with the blatant disregard an eleven-year-old has for the nuances of another generation.

"The book said this would happen," the man said. From somewhere below the window, he produced a disheveled looking top-hat with a slouching brim and placed it on his head with a jaunty tilt that did nothing to lessen his agitated appearance. Rose noticed a wilting bowtie . . . was he wearing a tuxedo? "Before the Letting. But the book says it's easier the more alike you are, and my children are never loud. Hush, now."

The Letting? His children? Who were they supposed to be like? Rose had so many questions she couldn't manage to formulate just one, and the window was closing, closing while she gaped ineffectively.

"Why are we here?" she asked desperately, selfishly in the face of all that could, would, and probably was happening.

The man smiled a thin smile, deepening the shadows under his eyes. "You're here because I summoned you. Mind, body, and soul, I bound you. And you came for the Letting."

"What Letting?"

"Oh no, the book says I mustn't say more," he began to shut the window, leaving Rose no more enlightened than she'd been a minute earlier.

"Where's the Stone? What are you going to do with it?" Al yelled desperately after him.

Their captor's smile bared teeth as he spoke this time. "My dear boy, I _am_ the Stone."

He shut the window and the cheery light was gone. It didn't matter; Rose could guess approximately at the expressions the boys would be making. Scorpius would be pinching the bridge of his nose, the rest of his face still. Al would be frowning intently, eyebrows drawn together. Possibly he'd run a hand through his hair.

"He's barking," Al said in a wondering tone. Rose wondered whether he felt as she did: simultaneously repulsed and weirdly fascinated by the strange man whose name she didn't even know. Was this how Stockholm Syndrome started? And then Al, pragmatic when she least expected, brought them back to the real question at hand. "Where d'you think he's really got the Stone?"

He raised a fair point. Had the man swallowed it? _I am the Stone_. Something was very wrong.

"I think we need to consider the possibility that we have been very, very wrong," Scorpius said quietly, echoing her thoughts.

Rose nodded to herself reluctantly and tried to restack the facts in her mind. She hadn't expected any of this. She'd expected to find a madman, yes. But she'd expected to find a madman in possession of the Resurrection Stone, carrying out a plot to raise an army of Inferi and wreak havoc for an as-yet-unknown reason. She'd expected things to make sense. The notes all year had been hinting at the Resurrection Stone. Hadn't they? _Serpent falls prey to the Stone; Stone does for Flower half-grown._ Sinister references to death? Check. Said rock playing a role in said death? Check. _I'll mend Grave mistakes_. Sinister reference to death? Check. Reversal of death? Check.

And yet nothing was adding up. Why would this man claim to _be_ the Stone? Why had he simply locked them in this room, instead of disposing of them – using their blood and bone - right away? Why had he claimed to have summoned them? Rose was fairly certain summoning didn't work on humans, or at least that's what her mother would loudly declare on those nights when her father would say, "I'm going to bed early," waggle his eyebrows, and then repeatedly shout "_Accio_!" from behind the closed bedroom door until Hermione rolled her eyes and joined him.

What was she missing?

"I think he's a Muggle," Scorpius said. It was possibly the last sentence Rose expected. She shook her head slightly.

Al was less subtle. "A _what?_"

"A Muggle. I don't know who he is, but I think he's a Muggle."

"He was using a gun . . ." Rose mused, still nonplussed.

"Have you read that book?"

"What book?" Al asked.

"Henry . . . whosit?" Rose asked.

"Should have known you'd read it," Al muttered.

"I haven't read _everything_, you know, Al," Rose said. "No, I don't think I've seen it. What was it called?"

Scorpius sighed. "_Henry Palmer and the Magician's Marble._ It's a Muggle kids' book. Rather dark for the genre, actually." He paused abruptly. "I read it."

Nothing about the title stirred any sort of memory in Rose. "It doesn't sound familiar at all," she said. Her mother had read her some of what she called "The Classics" when she was younger – Tolkien, Cooper, and Dickens were all familiar names in the Weasley house – but this book was almost certainly not among them. She tried feverishly recalled everything she could about it, which was not much, given that she'd been facing down the barrel of a gun at the time. Metallic writing for the title. And a cover illustration that, now Rose thought about it, hadn't moved. Definitely a Muggle book. "Why were you reading a Muggle book, Scorpius?"

Scorpius continued as though he hadn't heard her. "It's the book he keeps talking about. 'Mind, body, and soul' he summoned you."

"That's not how summoning works," Al interjected.

"I know," Scorpius said exasperatedly, "But that's how it works in the book. It's written by a Muggle, Al."

"Muggles write books about wizards?"

"'They dream of magic'," Rose said softly. "It's something Mum always says."

Scorpius pressed on, his tone urgent. "Have you two noticed any of your things missing lately?"

_My notebook_, Rose thought. _ And my slipper?_ "Yes," she admitted unwillingly.

"My rubber wand went missing," Al said. "My comb, too. And I had a radio I thought James had stolen."

"Three things each, right? Mind, body, and soul."

"How does he know which is which?" Al asked.

Rose hissed a breath out from between her teeth. It was an insightful question, but what did it really matter at this point? She wondered what her third item had been. She remembered that her trunk had been ransacked, but couldn't work out for the life of her what might have been taken. She filed it away under "To deal with later," and then realized that she was assuming there would be a "later." She pushed that thought away.

"So you think he's a Muggle," Al continued, "Because he's got this book. And otherwise he'd know what a real summoning looked like."

Rose felt more than saw Scorpius nod his head. Something clicked into place in her mind. "I seek an object, or three – " she said.

"' The power to bind you to me,'" Al continued for her. "Oh, bollocks."

And just like that, all of Rose's theories came crashing down around her. She had been . . . so wrong. "He was never even after the Stone," she said quietly. "He was after us. Me and Al? But why?"

There was a long and horrible pause, during which Rose realized that the answer to her question was dawning on her slowly and awfully, but that Scorpius definitely already knew something. And the longer he neglected to answer the question, the less likely she was going to be to like his answer when he gave it. She knew. She knew that he knew she knew. And yet he remained silent anyways for an abominably long time.

"I think he's planning to sacrifice you." Scorpius's words came out clipped. He sighed, "And probably me as well, now I'm here." The fact that Rose knew he'd been going to say it didn't make it easier to hear.

"_Human_ sacrifice?" Al gasped in horror. "But that's been illegal since . . . since . . . are there even _spells_ for that?"

Neither Rose nor Scorpius answered. The truth was that of course there were spells involving human sacrifice. Wizards throughout the ages had killed their brethren, magical and non-, for a variety of purposes – from Vlad the Impaler, who killed in the hopes of extending his own life, to Sarah Seesmore, who killed in an attempt to rid herself of the plague of prescience, to Voldemort, who killed in an indirect and ultimately futile effort to ward off his own death. Human sacrifice had been illegal as long as magical history had been written, but that didn't mean much to a psychopath or a desperate madman. Particularly, Rose thought grimly, one who knew nothing of true magic. Most spells involving human sacrifice had been proven, soundly and academically, to have no efficacy. Rose knew the final study had been performed sometime during the European Renaissance, before the first mention of Horcruxes in 1787. That, of course, didn't necessarily stop anyone who was truly intent on killing. Or truly intent on some other goal.

For wizards, for anyone really, death was the last great unknown. As such, it was feared and reviled and avoided by some, accepted and even anticipated by others. For everyone, it held great power. Hadn't even the great Albus Dumbledore viewed death as his "next great adventure"? Rose's mother had repeated that to her often enough growing up, having heard it once from Harry and stored it away like a magpie, like so many other threads of wisdom she'd gathered from her friends over the years. Before Professor McGonagall's funeral, at Aunt Andromeda's, at the death of Rose's first pet (a rabbit she'd named Petunia without knowing). Her father had modified Dumbledore's advice, she remembered, after one particularly hazardous incident, which she'd tried to escape by jumping off the roof. "Death may be the next great adventure, Rosie dear, but that doesn't mean you've got to try for it now. Finish this adventure first."

Finish this adventure first. "He wouldn't even know if there were, Al. He's a Muggle, and he's apparently basing his magic off this book. Which means – Scorpius, we'll need to know what the book has to say about . . . about –"

"They call it Letting," Scorpius began tonelessly, as though he'd been waiting for the question. Which, of course, he had. Rose let him talk without interruptions, knowing that she needed to hear all of it. Scorpius spoke without sentiment, but Rose felt herself tensing, searching for a solution, for a loophole, for a passage back to sanity. _How did this happen? How did we get this so wrong?_

Henry Palmer was a child, she learned. An orphan, and a magical child (a "Magician" in this book. Rose snorted – magicians were those silly performers in top hats and bowties at Muggle birthday parties – _oh Merlin_). Rose tuned out most of Scorpius's summary of the book's storyline, but she did manage to gather the basic premise of the Letting – apparently some sort of key plot point in the book. The idea was simple: a life for a life. It was both a sacrifice and a trade. The execution of this concept was more complex, and that's where it got grisly. Rose's mind simply skipped over the details of the Letting ceremony, telling herself she'd deal with those later, because really, who wanted to think more about blood and bone and cauldrons, of all things, when it was _their_ blood and _their_ bones in the cauldron in question? Suffice to say, she told herself, it sounded unpleasant, and it would certainly be fatal. Why it couldn't have just been painlessly fatal, she supposed, was up to the whims of the madman-slash-author. _How did this ever get cleared as a book sold for_ _children?_ she wondered inanely.

Scorpius's face was perfectly motionless. Even as Rose's eyes readjusted to the darkness, she could see no shift in the shadows over his face hardly shifted, and hardly any movement of his mouth as he spoke. He hunched against the wall next to Al's bed, had jammed himself in between the bed and the side table, and Rose had to crane her neck to be able to see him at all. It was too disconcerting to just hear his flat voice go on, explaining how the Letting ceremony – figment of a deranged imagination, no doubt – worked. One aspect of the ceremony did stick in her mind, even as she let the others run through, trying _not _to know: the ceremony had to be performed on the same date, and at the same time, as the deaths of those to be revived. When had their captor's children died?

Rose may have been slightly shell-shocked, but she could still put two and two together. It wasn't advanced Arithmancy to take the evidence they'd been presented with – their own kidnapping, their age, the few words this "Stone" had spoken to them – and put together a coherent picture. "My children are never loud." "The book says it's easier the more alike you are." She almost felt badly for him. Almost.

She felt worse for herself. _Why me?_ _Why us?_

"So," Scorpius was saying, in the same oddly subdued voice he'd been using all along, "I think we need to get out of here."

"Yes, thank you, Minister Obvious – " Al began.

"When did his children die?" Rose asked what she thought was an obvious question.

"What?" Al asked, sitting up straight. "His children?"

"Oh, Al," Rose said, "Isn't it obvious? He's sacrificing us to get his children back. We're the trade for them, two for two, and Scorpius isn't even supposed to be here. What we need to know, right now or sooner, is when his children died. Because if the Letting needs to happen at the same time as their deaths – "

"We need to know how long we've got," Al finished.

"What we need," Scorpius interrupted, "Is to get out of here. Now or sooner. Not to be worrying about when this man's _children_ died. _We're_ going to die, and that's priority in my book."

Silently, Rose conceded that he had a point. And on top of that, she mused, had their situation really changed so drastically? Whether their captor was an insane Muggle intent on performing a fictitious ritual to return his dead children to life, or an insane wizard intent on raising an army of the dead mattered very little. They were in the custody of a person who wished them harm, as an incidental sacrifice in a grander scheme. It angered Rose in the extreme that she'd been wrong for several months, but the cold, practical side of her shut down that frustration and tried to analyze the situation rationally. Well, as rationally as she could do, with a pounding heartbeat and a trembling tension in her stomach.

This is what she knew: they were in danger. This is what she needed to know: they had to get out. But how? She steadied herself and took stock. They were in a room. It was not a large room. There were two small, musty beds and one small, cracked bedside table. The walls were unadorned as far as she could see save for what appeared to be several deep gouges. Without the lantern, the room was illuminated by what may have been the dim, filtered light of a distant streetlamp, seen through a disappointing window. Disappointing mostly because it offered no hope of escape: it was situated up high, nearly at the level of the ceiling, between the two headboards. Rose had surmised they were underground as she tripped blindly down the hallway in advance of the madman holding a firearm, and the tufts of grass she could see outside the bottom of the window confirmed it. The bars over the window glinted dully in a way that suggested metal, which was even more disheartening. And, Rose thought to herself, while it was possible that she might have fit through that window three years ago, she'd have to lop off some body parts before getting through now.

So the window was a dead end, and without their wands, they weren't likely to get through the walls. Even with their wands, Rose had to admit that they probably didn't know the spellwork that would tunnel them safely through solid walls, out and up, without bringing the house down around their heads. Which left just the door.

Closer inspection of the door didn't yield anything that particularly lent itself to hopefulness. It was up close as it had appeared from across the room: solid, wooden, locked. Rose pounded on it experimentally in sections. She hoped to find a weak plank, but all she got were a series of resounding thuds. And another set of footsteps down the hall. Rose hurried back to her bed.

"This was only supposed to happen once," he said sharply when he opened the window. "Why are you being loud?"

"What happened to your children?" Rose asked, completely on impulse. She was surprised at the question as soon as it left her.

The man's face crumpled. He looked twenty years younger as he said, "They were killed."

"By Voldemort," Scorpius said softly, and it wasn't a question. In a flash, Rose saw it. This man was one of the victims of the Muggle hate-killings, back in Voldemort's heyday. Or, at least, his children had been. Rose knew how those had gone; her parents hadn't spared her the telling of the Death Eater's cruelty, even as they'd hidden their own role in the war. She knew that victims of the hate killings would return home to see the Dark Mark over their houses, or their neighbors'. That, as Muggles, they didn't even know what horrors to expect when they set foot in their brick-front houses with the tidy lawns and the curtains in the window. That the Department of Magical Law enforcement was so overrun with Voldemort's brutes by the end of the war, half the time family members returning home were murdered themselves, when another Death Eater was dispatched to the Dark Mark. That, even in cases when a member of the Order got their first, often the best thing they could do for the living remainder of the family was to Obliviate them and relocate them. Rose pictured this man returning to his home to find his children dead, and perhaps his wife. She didn't have to wonder what that would do to a person; she saw it still lived in him.

"By the _heroes_ who didn't save them," the man spat. "By your family," he continued, looking straight at Al, "And by yours." Rose felt his gaze on her and lifted her chin to meet his eyes.

_That's not fair!_ She wanted to yell. But other questions stopped her cold. The least charitable of these was: shouldn't this man have been memory wiped? And there were so many more, so much she didn't know. But at least she thought she knew now why he'd targeted she and Al. She had no idea how he'd learned about the Potters and the Weasleys, but what were the odds that he'd managed to find out about and track down more than one Wizarding family? He'd simply gone after the most convenient targets: the ones whose names he'd known. And she and Al – Rose gulped – she and Al must have been the same age as his children. "It's easier the more alike you are," his voice echoed in her head.

"I'd wager they don't remember my name," the man said, voice soft again. "But I'll not forget. No," he continued, shaking his head, reciting sadly, "Peter Marduin cannot forget, 24 April, that fateful sunset."

"You said your name was Stone!" Al blurted.

"It's a code name," Marduin said, backing away a step. He adjusted his top hat uncomfortably. "It's what they called me at the meetings."

"What meetings?"

"No, no, I'll not tell. I shan't tell, I promised I wouldn't." Marduin was rapidly backing away, his eyes hooded and dark. He turned to go, speaking over his shoulder, "And you must promise to be quiet! I must have quiet for my preparations, the book says so." He didn't give them any more of a chance to speak before slamming the little window shut.

"Well, at least we know we've got until sunset," Al said brightly. He let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. "I'm exhausted."

"No rest for the weary, I'm afraid," said Scorpius. Al groaned in protest. "You must be joking, Potter. We've less than fifteen hours to find our way out of a locked basement in the Shrieking Shack. No one knows we're here, we've lost our wands, and we're in the company of someone who thinks killing us will bring back his dead children. And you want to _have a lie-down?"_

"I've at least got to use the loo," Al grumbled.

"_Al_," Rose began, rolling her eyes even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Wait – Al, that's brilliant!" She sat forward.

"Oh, come on, Weasley."

"What, Malfoy, you don't think it will work?"

"Of course not!" Scorpius scoffed.

"So what's your inspired idea?"

"Could someone explain what we're talking about?" Al asked.

Rose obliged.

"Scorpius is right," Al said. "It'll never work."

"Well, why not?" Rose huffed.

"Rose," Scorpius began patiently, "If a five-year-old could immediately point out three major flaws in your so-called plan, it's not a good one. This is rule number twelve in the Basics of Nefarious Plotting."

"The 'Basics of Nefarious Plotting'?" Al asked.

"Rule number twelve?" Rose asked. "That seems oddly specific."

" . . . Was that just something my father made up?" Scorpius asked.

"Apparently," Rose said, hearing the smirk in her own voice. Scorpius's upbringing sounded stranger every time he talked about it.

"How many rules are there total?" Al asked curiously.

"One hundred," Scorpius replied promptly.

"I still think it's worth a shot," Rose said.

"Well," said Al, "It can't hurt. And I do really have to use the loo." He shuffled over to the door quietly, and Rose could almost see in her minds' eye the perplexed glare he'd be giving it. It was the same glare he used every time he had to wait for one of his pranks to take effect on James. Three seconds later he began banging on the door and yelling. This time, Marduin appeared almost instantly.

"What is it now?" He was holding the gun up to the window this time, which Rose could vaguely see by the faint light glinting off of the metallic surface.

"I, uh . . . I have to use the loo," Al said.

"You what?"

"The loo," Al repeated cautiously.

"I hadn't thought of that," Marduin said.

"You thought you were going to hold three children hostage for almost a whole day and they were never going to have to use the loo?" Al asked, incredulous.

"Er . . .," Marduin said awkwardly, waving the gun. Apparently, that's exactly what he'd thought. Rose almost laughed at his obvious discomfort. And then something miraculous happened. The door opened. Rose could see against the light in the corridor that Marduin stood, one hand on the door, one holding the gun towards them. "If you move," he said, looking at Rose, quiet and suddenly a lot less laughable, "I will shoot."

Rose didn't even nod.

Marduin gestured at Al, who followed him out of the room and disappeared down the corridor. Rose and Scorpius let out a collective breath.

"Do you think he'll manage it?" Rose asked softly. Scorpius didn't answer.

When they heard shuffling footsteps approaching down the hallway, Rose had been listening to her heart thud in her ears for so long, she wasn't sure she was even hearing right. The door creaked open just enough to let Al in, then slammed shut again. Rose looked at Al questioningly, and he cracked a grin.

"Got something," he whispered, whipping a wand out from under his shirt.

"Al," Rose said seriously, "I don't know if I have ever told you this, but you are brilliant. Completely, utterly – "

"Are you sure that's not your rubber wand?" said Scorpius.

Al's face crumpled. "Oh," he said, and swore loudly. He waved it around a little, and it promptly turned into a chicken.

"I retract my earlier statement," Rose muttered.

"It was the only thing that looked remotely magical on the table," Al said defensively. "Well, and this," he added, pulling the Deluminator from his pocket. "But I've no idea what it is."

Rose sat up, vaguely astonished; that was her third item! "It's mine," she said, holding out her hand. "Dad gave it to me." She cradled it to her chest.

"What does it do?" Al asked.

"Nothing useful," Rose said, clicking it. The one remaining ball of light flew out and hung just above head height in the middle of the room.

"Oh," said Al dejectedly. "So nefarious plot 'Grab something off the table on your way to the loo and hope it's useful' was a bust."

"It appears that way."

Rose clicked the Deluminator again. The ball of light flew back into the slim silver shape in her hand.

"Do you have any other ideas?" Al asked hopefully.

"Do you, Potter?" Scorpius replied somewhat testily. Silence stretched around the room. It was going to be a long night. And a long day. And then . . . Rose shuddered. And then, a remarkably short night. Unless they figured something out. Rose wracked her brains, but since they'd been so recently wracked, her mind just felt out of whack. _How could I have been so wrong?_ she asked herself. Again.

"D'you think you could put the light back, Rosie?" Al asked plaintively.

Rose clicked the Deluminator again. But instead of flying up to the ceiling as she'd expected, the ball of light that left the device began to glow a pale blue color. It looped around the room rapidly, then traveled slowly towards her.

"Rose . . .?" Al asked.

Rose backed all the way up against the moldering head of the bed. "I've no idea," she said.

"Don't let it touch you," Scorpius advised.

"Yes, thanks," Rose said acidly, trying to dodge as the light seemingly pursued her. It perfectly mirrored her movements, blocking her at every turn when she tried to move around it. She was reminded again of her grandfather's old adage – the one about not trusting anything unless she could see where it kept its brain. The ball of light was small; she didn't see where it could possibly be keeping a brain of any sort, and yet it followed.

"What's it doing?" Al asked from the opposite corner of the room, where he and Scorpius watched Rose's strange dance with the light.

"How should I kno-" said Rose, and it caught her. Or she caught it. She tried to move around and it zipped faster than she'd expected and suddenly, she could feel it somewhere inside her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, surprised that it didn't hurt. It was somewhere in her chest, maybe, or lodged in her throat, and she felt light. That was a silly word to use. She felt ephemeral.

"Weasley?" Scorpius asked uncertainly.

Rose stood up and walked through the door.

Her course of action seemed very clear to her body, even if her mind hadn't quite caught up. She walked down a hallway, feeling as though she were slightly floating the whole time. She found herself standing in front of a locked trunk. She didn't recognize the trunk, she thought, but some influence told her it was important. Apparently oblivious to the limitations of the physical world, she watched herself reach through the front of the trunk. When she withdrew her arm, she clutched three wands in her hand.

The light left her. It felt as though she suddenly thudded to the ground, like that instant before sleep when she would fall an infinite and miniscule distance and awaken flat on her back in bed. The light didn't go back into the Deluminator as she might have expected, but instead seemed to dissipate into the room around her. Experimentally, she clicked the Deluminator several times. Nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing continued to happen. Rose was left alone and in the dark.

She should have been terrified.

She was terrified, but now at least she was terrified and armed.

"_Lumos,"_ she whispered, hoping desperately that Marduin somehow hadn't heard her. She crept back towards the room at the end of the hallway, the only room with a lock on the door. "_Alohomora?_" she said hopefully once she'd reached it. There was no response from the door. _Now what?_

Rose tried to search her mind for any mentions of other unlocking spells, but her encyclopedic knowledge seemed to be failing her. She knocked quietly on the door.

"Do you know any unlocking spells?" she asked softly. She was answered only by further knocking, which she echoed back.

"_ROSE?" _she suddenly heard Al shouting from the other side of the door, "_IS THAT YOU?"_

"Hush, hush! Al, yes!" Rose said, louder than she would have liked, "Al, do you know any unlocking spells?"

"_HAVE YOU TRIED ALOHOMORA?"_

_ "_Oh, for Merlin's – hush, Al! Yes, of course I tried it, it's not – "

"What's this?" Marduin's voice asked from behind Rose. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to make herself small, but of course she was standing directly in front of a door and wasn't at all camouflaged, and as soon as he'd lit his lantern, he'd see – "Girl? How did you - ?" he began, and then hissed. "Witchcraft." He leveled his gun at her.

"Oh, well-spotted," Rose said, freezing and desperately hoping those words would not be her last. She didn't believe he'd pull the trigger. He still needed her, after all.

Marduin pulled the trigger, and Rose's heart stopped.

He missed. It shouldn't have been surprising, given the darkness of the hallway and the fact that the beam of his torch was shaking like mad, but it was enough to galvanize Rose into action. She aimed her wand at the door. "AL, STEP BACK!" she yelled.

He pulled the trigger again, and the gun made a funny clicking noise. Cursing loudly, he began to fumble in his pockets.

No possible spells flew through Rose's head. She had no idea how to unlock this door. But she thought she might know another way in, and she was certainly desperate enough to try it. "_REDUCTO! REDUCTO! REDUCTO!" _

The door and part of the surrounding wall were reduced rather suddenly to dust, and Rose had to stop casting the spell because she'd inhaled some and her throat seemed to stop working. Eyes watering, she made her way into the cloud of demolished wood and earth where the door used to be. She could hear Marduin's steps pounding along the hallway behind her, and knew they had only seconds to get out of the room. Tossing the wands to Al and Scorpius, she aimed her own at the wall opposite.

"_Reducto!"_ The wall shuddered.

"Rose, what're you doing?" Al asked, waving his wand arm around frantically. "You'll knock the wall down!"

"That's the idea!" she yelled back as part of the wall surrounding the window cracked.

"Did you consider the wall might be structurally important?" Scorpius asked, aiming nonetheless.

"Did you consider the madman with a gun coming down the hall _right now_?" Rose asked, glancing sidewise at him.

Scorpius sighed. "_Reducto_," he said almost calmly, and the wall cracked.

The combined onslaught of the three of them was reducing the wall to rubble layer by layer as Peter skidded to a halt in the entryway. Rose turned to find him with his mouth agape, eyes welling with frustrated tears. She turned back to the wall in time to see a hole open up as the bars around the window finally gave out, the glass bursting inwards. Scorpius threw up his arms. The ceiling of their little basement room in the Shrieking Shack was crumbling rapidly, cracks spreading outward from the blank space where the window was.

"Go!" she urged Al and Scorpius, who began clambering up the growing pile of rubble toward the black night above them. She ascended a heartbeat behind them and watched as they squirmed through the widening window hole and out into the night. She herself was halfway through the hole when Peter lunged, catching her ankle, at which point Rose did what any sensible eleven-year-old would do and screamed her bloodiest. She wrenched her ankle out of his grip – or rather, she tried, and something cracked. She felt her scream leave her throat ragged, her entire world narrowing to the fact that something was grinding in her ankle. Ahead of her, Al whirled and echoed her wordless scream, pointing his wand at the man grasping his cousin's ankle. Next to him, Rose could see Scorpius freeze, the whites showing all around his eyes as he gripped his wand with bloodless fingers.

Rose could never be sure afterwards exactly what happened. Wandless magic, yes, that much was obvious. But from whom? Was it her, in her desperation, hands clawing desperately at the ground, only a few feet from freedom? With her knuckles scraped and her robes covered in grime? Was it Al, in some primal protective instinct that was as much from his mother and grandmothers as from his father? Was it Scorpius, the boy whose friendship she still wasn't entirely sure she wanted?

In the end, it didn't matter. Marduin let got of her ankle as though burned, and almost simultaneously, the roof finished caving in. Rose managed to yank her ankle free just in time. She lay panting on the cold ground, hearing the loud rumblings and thuds continue inside the Shrieking Shack. She heard more glass shatter somewhere. All she could think of was the blankness in Marduin's eyes right before they'd disappeared from view.

She was so cold.

"Rosie?" Al asked quietly, bending down and grabbing her elbow gently, "Rose, we should get back to the castle."

"My ankle is broken," she said tonelessly.

"We can float you back," Scorpius said. She saw that he was bleeding from several cuts on his face and neck. Al nodded.

"If you drop me," Rose began, but stopped herself before adding, "I'll kill you." Hadn't she just killed someone? She shut her own eyes tightly, but still felt like he was watching her.

"_Wingardium Leviosa,_" she heard Al and Scorpius say together, and they began the long trek back to the castle.

Rose didn't remember most of the walk later, save for as a painful, dizzying blur. She was too tired to even think, too sick to process everything that had happened. The walk had seemed much shorter coming through the tunnels, but seeing as they'd just collapsed the interior of the Shack, over ground was their only option. She didn't remember reaching the gates of the castle or walking across the grounds; she didn't remember the shift from the cool night air to the warmer interior of the castle. She very clearly remembered clipping her ankle on a stair, the levitation charm not being quite precise enough to keep her afloat with two understandably exhausted casters. She didn't even have the energy to scream, though she did sort of try. What came out sounded more like a choking sob, but Al winced and hoisted her a little higher.

Somehow they reached the Common Room without incident, though Merlin knew they should have run into at least two separate prefect patrols along the way. It wasn't as though they were trying to be quiet this time around, either. Al's dragging feet and intermittent (and often obscene) exclamations coupled with Scorpius's panting meant that they should have been caught long before they reached the Fat Lady. Standing in front of the portrait (well, levitating, in Rose's case), the three looked round at each other. The Fat Lady was, of course, asleep.

"Erm," said Al, "Excuse me?"

The Fat Lady's eyes fluttered. "And what sort of time do you call this?" she demanded as she fully awoke. Then she got a good look at them. "Good heavens! And what have you been doing?"

Rose hadn't realized until she tried to speak that she'd been crying. Her voice came out hoarse and soft. "Please just let us in."

"Hmmmph. Password?"

"Raxacoricofallapatorius," Al said, straightening up. "And open as wide as you can, please, we're going to have to carry Rose through."

"Did you consider going to the Infirmary before disturbing me?" The Fat Lady harrumphed, swinging open. Rose could have cried at the first sight of the Common Room couches, if she'd not been crying already. Then the portrait swung wider, and she saw –

"Oh, thank Merlin! Al, Rose . . . Dra- . . . er . . . Scorpius?" Uncle Harry ran over, eyes frantic, as Al and Scorpius handed Rose gingerly through the portrait hole.

"Where. On. Earth," Aunt Ginny began, and then appeared to notice the state of them. She looked them up and down several times, no doubt noticing that Rose couldn't support her own weight, that Scorpius was slowly and steadily dripping blood from a multitude of cuts on his arms, and that the three of them were covered in dust and dirt. She threw up her hands. "Well, at least we know they came by it honestly," she said, narrowing her eyes at her husband.

"Al," Uncle Harry said, settling Rose gently on the couch. "Can you tell us what happened? And," he hesitated, glancing at Aunt Ginny before continuing, "We need to know what you did with the Cloak."

_**Author's Note:**__ I regret sincerely that this took me so long to write. I've known this was the outcome since the beginning of the story; the difficulty was in conveying it to you, the readers, without having a 15,000 word chapter with 20 pages of dialog and far too much exposition (which is how this chapter started). I hope that it came across all right, but please do let me know if you have questions! As many readers have found, I do respond to questions in the reviews, as well as to suggestions about the chapters. If things are unclear, it may be either because 1) it's going to be explained in the next chapter or 2) it's inside my head and I forgot to write it down. Either way, it would be good for me to know what did and did not come across, and I am always trying to improve as an author!_

_As always, thank you so much to everyone that reads this story, with extra gratitude on the side for those who favorite it/me, and a whole heaping of "YOU MADE MY DAY" to those who leave a review :)_


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